Our Own Way
by mavors4986
Summary: Part III of The Doctor's Wife series: Dramatic AU world in which Anne and Gilbert face their struggles with the pressures of adulthood, parenthood and married life.
1. Going for love

**Dear readers,**

 **Welcome to the third installment of the Doctor's Wife series! For those of you who have been reading since part I, THANK YOU for your continuous support. Hope you enjoy this third (and possibly last) part of the story. This go around, I think I will start answering your reviews at the end of the chapters, as many seem to do. The format seems appealing!**

 **For newcomers, a fair warning: this is an AU, _very_ far from canon. Also, if you haven't read the parts I and II, that's alright, though part III might not make a lot of sense on its own. So, just in case, here are the links!**

 **Part I, The Doctor's Wife** s/12172184/1/The-Doctor-s-Wife  
 **Part II, Searching for Anne** s/12234997/1/Searching-for-Anne

 **Thank you, and happy reading!**

* * *

Diana Wright carried the full tray she'd prepared into the parlor, where Anne sat by the fire. As Diana set the tray down and poured the tea, she observed her friend: dark rings under her eyes contrasted with skin too pale, and the dress she'd borrowed from Marilla highlighted how thin she'd become. Still, Diana was overjoyed and to see her, and not a little relieved. She set a gingerbread cookie on the side of the saucer for good measure before handing over the steaming beverage.

"Thank you," Anne said as quietly as the crackling emanating from the fireplace. "For everything, Di. For taking care of my boys."

"Of course, I love having them with me." Unable to hold her own saucer without rattling the cup, she set it back down on the tray with a soft clink and sat down. "The moment I saw your letter, I knew something was terribly wrong. By that time, Marilla was hanging on by a thread, so Rachel sent for Davy, and I went to the Glen."

Anne blinked several times, and swallowed hard. "I never meant to turn everyone's lives upside down."

"No, darling, you didn't. Really, I should have gone up there much earlier. Gilbert called us the day after you'd gone, but without much to go on, we'd hoped...Oh, Anne, it was so foolish. We pretended that all was well, like you'd simply gone for a long walk, and would return soon. Even when John and Sarah went up to help with the boys over the weekend, we stayed in denial."

"Diana, that was my fault, not yours."

She turned from the fireplace to face her friend. "Why didn't you come to me, Anne?" she asked softly. "I would have helped. I would have done whatever I could. Why didn't you trust me?"

Anne peered into her friend's earnest, soulful, big black eyes. "Diana, my love, I trust you above anyone else. I trust you with my life." She sighed and set her teacup down carefully. "I almost did come to see you, I wanted to so badly - but I didn't want to bring the pain to you. I had to take it away, you see, far from everyone dear to me."

Diana smiled sadly. "I understand. Though I do hate the idea of you going again."

"I'll be fine. We'll be fine," she amended. "We'll head out to Kemptville tomorrow, and come straight back the day after. Are you absolutely sure you don't mind the boys staying with you one more night?"

"They can stay ten more. I mean it: Anne, they're dolls. I love having them, and so does Fred - although, I think he mostly enjoys having an extra set of hands in the barn. You should see Jem with the cows!"

"He takes after his Grandpa Blythe," she acknowledged with a twinge of pride, and waited two beats before asking: "The Blythes - are they horribly cross?"

Diana's sympathetic smile did not set Anne at ease. "I think they understand. But you shouldn't worry about that now. You need to take care of yourself first."

Anne reached for her hand and squeezed it affectionately. Diana squeezed back, then grinned.

"So, tell me: can you really manage both Gil and Mr. Garrison together in the same buggy?"

* * *

"Blythe. A word?"

Gilbert groaned inwardly, but did not look up from his father's horse. Old Count was chomping on the apple he held out, enormous teeth coming greedily close to his fingers.

"Sure," he acquiesced without enthusiasm. It wasn't as though he would take 'no' for an answer, anyhow. Garrison approached, his confident swagger like sandpaper to Gilbert's nerves.

"Have you given any thought to what Lebrun said?"

Of course, the man had just to come to pester him. "I don't see how it's any of your business."

"You really ought to consider it. Look, you just got Anne back - and I'm thrilled about it, don't get me wrong - but you've got to wonder at your part in all of this."

"I might not have been the perfect husband, and I might have made mistakes, but I will deal with it on my own terms. My private life is just that: private. _She_ might not see anything wrong about airing out our issues to everyone and anyone, but _I_ do!"

"She has been turning herself inside out, trying to find a way to make it back to you, and to be the mother her children - _your_ children - deserve," Jack seethed. "If you're unwilling to meet her even part of the way, she'd be doing it all in vain."

Old Count whinnied, and Gilbert went to toss the uneaten bits of apple core in the pig slop bucket, and exited the barn. Jack followed. "Lebrun's not just anyone, you know. What he's done for her so far is incredible. You can't imagine the progress."

"How do you know any of this was his doing? How would you even know _what_ he was doing?" he questioned, wiping his hands in fresh snow. "How do you even trust him?"

"Because he did the same for me." Gilbert's head snapped up, his eyes alert. "I had a few sessions of my own with him." Garrison's look was haunted as he went on reluctantly. "I blamed myself for...uh, putting Anne in a bad state of mind. I didn't know how my actions would hurt her- no, not that way!" he raised his hands in surrender at Blythe, who was fuming like a trapped bull. "I told you over and again, nothing like that ever took place."

"What. Did. You. Do?" Gilbert growled, barely containing his rage. Jack shook his head.

"I said some things to her that were misplaced, but that's neither here, nor there. If she wants you to know, she will tell you. And I think she does want to tell you everything: she'll need the doctor for that, though. And so will you. So? Will you consent to a session of your own as well?"

Gilbert breathed hard through his nose, his jaw clenched. He wanted to fight it, and he hated to give Garrison any reason to believe he'd won, but this was larger than some petty feud.

He nodded in affirmation. For Anne, for his boys, he would bare his inner workings to the famous Dr. Lebrun.


	2. Three's a crowd

Gilbert fidgeted in his seat. It was turning out to be one of the most taxing days of his life, and he yearned to crawl in bed and give in to unconsciousness. At the same time, he knew there would be no rest tonight: tonight, he and Anne would share a bed.

They could have shared a bed the night before, but Anne had preferred to stay alone at Green Gables again. It was impossible to begrudge her time with Marilla, especially since the woman had improved so drastically with Anne's return. Knowing he would be needed at home to keep Garrison in check (there was no love lost between his mother and Jack), Gilbert had no choice but to agree to spend the night apart.

The Blythes and the Wrights met at Green Gables before sunrise the following morning; Davy had volunteered to drive the buggy to the station so that they might catch the earliest train out. Shoulders were squeezed, eyes grew misty, kisses were delivered, along with promises to travel safely and call upon their arrival. To everyone's surprise it was Jem, not Walter, who burst into tears and grabbed at his mother's dress. Anne took the boy in her arms and whispered soothingly in his ear. Gilbert added a comforting hand to the sobbing boy's back, whispering to Anne that they would miss the train if they didn't leave straight away. She nodded and held Jem close, assuring him they would be back the following evening, with a little help from Granny Blythe, then Aunt Marilla. Auntie Di was eventually able to tip the scale by suggesting that they stay up late tonight around a bonfire.

Davy drove fast, but he couldn't make up for the delayed departure: he waited for them to purchase their tickets from the vendor, said his goodbyes, and left Gilbert, Anne and Jack on the platform. The wait for the next westbound train was tense and cold, and sitting across from Garrison felt like traveling under the eyes of a watchful escort. Gilbert didn't much care for the way Garrison stared at him and his wife, and wasn't able to enjoy the newfound proximity to Anne (who was too busy making small talk with Jack to mind his own discomfort). When time finally came to part ways in Montreal, the two men challenged each other with a grip that passed for a handshake, and then Gilbert turned away so as not to witness an emotional farewell.

 _"You will write, won't you?"_ she'd asked. Gilbert seethed inwardly at dreamy quality of his voice.

 _"Reckon you'll be otherwise occupied,"_ came the cocky reply. _"Anyhow, I've never had a letter sent back to me with the punctuation corrected, and I don't intend on starting now."_ Watery giggles, sighs, more inside jokes to which he wasn't privy...dragged on mercilessly until finally, their train was called. Jack saw them board, and with a final wave and scandalous wink, walked out of their lives not a day too soon.

If Gilbert thought the rest of the trip would be easier, he was disillusioned quickly enough. Conversation on the train was stunted, the accidental touches and grazes felt awkward, unanswered questions and resentment sitting between them like a restless child. The hired carriage ride (he'd gladly shelled out the extra coins for convenience and comfort) had offered plenty of time to build up anxiety and trepidation, and by the time they reached their destination, Gilbert thought he might be sick.

Dr. Lebrun did nothing to put him at ease. A man of few words, and even fewer facial expressions, it was impossible to tell what he thought (or whether he even thought at all) at any given time. Their first encounter a few days back had been brief, and he hadn't paid the man much attention. Now, over a light tea and some chatting, Gilbert might have thought him rather slow, if it weren't for the title (earned only through education rather than actual career, as far as he could tell). By his own judgement, the man was odd at best.

When the cups had been refilled, and their most recent travels discussed between polite nibbles of jam thumbprints, the old man behind the white cloud of beard announced that he would like to have a moment alone with Anne first, then with Gilbert. Being left to his own devices while waiting for her had been agonizing enough; going in himself to be inspected and questioned, a new exercise in torture. Nevertheless, the doctor had seen them both, and now they sat in the parlor again, waiting for him to "make some notes" before he would tell them his recommendations.

And he knew - they both did - that among said recommendations, there would be talk of physical separation. That _time heals all wounds, absence makes the heart grow fonder_ load of poppycock. Whoever had come up with those sayings had obviously never been abandoned by a spouse, Gilbert decided. However, regardless of today's outcome, he and Anne would share a bed tonight. It was the single thought that kept him from bolting when Lebrun came out of his office.

* * *

Anne felt odd when Gilbert exited the washroom in his sleepwear. It had been a long time since they'd stayed at an inn, and even longer since she'd felt excited at the idea. The tumbling sensation in her stomach wasn't laced with the virginal anxiety she'd experienced before, but was now tainted with awkwardness. For some reason she could not comprehend, she felt as though she was sharing the space with a stranger. It did not seem wrong, per se, but it certainly felt weird.

Gilbert wasn't exactly helping matters. He fidgeted with the top button at his collar, and wouldn't look her in the eye. "I noticed a tea room next door," he told her left ear. "We can have some breakfast there, if you'd like. We'd have to wake up early, though."

"Could we have tea on the train instead?" she asked. "It's such a long journey, anyway."

He nodded. "Sounds good. I'd prefer that as well."

Goodness, was it going to be like this from now on? Were they doomed to keep this weird, tentative awkwardness between them forever? It had been stifling them since the day he'd found her at Green Gables. When he'd seized with panic, she'd thrown her arms around him without thinking. But after he'd calmed down, neither had known what to say, and so they'd sat in silence. Unsure of whether her touch was welcome, she'd retracted her hands, and he'd shifted uncomfortably. When the sun began to set, he'd asked whether she would spend the night with him at his parents' house, with enthusiasm rivaling a jailer's headed for a public hanging. When she'd suggested that maybe she ought to stay at Green Gables, there was no mistaking his relief. All things considered, she was glad to stay with Marilla.

The following day, Diana brought over the boys to be finally reunited with their mother. Gilbert had come with Sarah Blythe, and with so many people present, they never once found themselves alone. At the end of the day, Anne asked Gilbert whether she should stay at Green Gables one more night. He'd shrugged with an air of detachment so chilling, she'd nodded and rushed to the kitchen stove to warm up.

The awkwardness was back in full force in the morning. On the way to the train station, on the platform, in the train...Thank goodness for Jack's good humor, or she might have jumped out of her own skin. Continuing their journey without him had only served to widen the gulf between her and Gilbert.

The thin veneer of quietude and courtesy began to capitulate during the carriage ride to Kemptville. A small scowl took over his face slowly, and by the time Miss Hilda let them in, Gilbert was channeling the charm of a bear woken a week early from hibernation. He put on such a show of leaning in the chair and tilting his head back that she had wanted to smack him. He'd also refused to address Dr. Lebrun as such, and referred to him as "sir" (making her flush in embarrassment), and had been remarkably curt and uncooperative in his answers. Of course, she understood that his unparalleled rudeness and scorn were meant to cover how displeased and terrified he felt about being here. Dr Gilbert Blythe would never admit to being remotely phased by such a situation; still, it was no excuse for his abysmal behavior, and she was furious at him.

But furious was better than awkward. After Dr. Lebrun had helped them formulate a plan, and the three of them headed next door, where the Ulaafsens were expecting them for supper. Anne was glad for the opportunity to apologize in person for leaving without much notice, and even gladder that Gilbert's regular polite attitude was back in place around the family that had so kindly taken her in. Having enjoyed a meal in pleasant company, they thanked their hosts and the doctor, and gotten a room at the inn by the station. The strangling oddness between them made the air seem thick, and they'd apparently been reduced to talking about breakfast. Anne inhaled sharply, and ordered herself to act like the grown woman she was.

"Are you coming to bed?" she asked, cringing at the self-doubt in her tone. He finally met her eye, and their gazes locked. Gilbert looked at her without speaking, as though contemplating whether he should, and nodded. Slowly, he made his way to the bed and lifted the covers. Anne's nerves got the best of her, and she shuffled to the very edge of her side, put out the candle by her side and pulled the blanket over her. The mattress shifted as he got settled, and the sound of him blowing out his own candle made her start.

Anne laid perfectly still until Gilbert's breathing became shallow with slumber. For good measure, she waited another minute, then wriggled extra carefully so as not to jostle the bed, bringing her body so close to his, she could feel the heat he generated through his nightclothes. One millimeter at a time, she shifted until the sides of their bodies lined up: arm against arm, legs brushing, her head at an angle to rest on his shoulder. It was still weird, but not altogether unpleasant. With time, she might get used to it.

* * *

Gilbert focused on his breathing. With Anne laying stiff as a plank next to him, he'd thought to spare her further discomfort by feigning sleep: that would be enough to put her at ease, and that once she'd fallen asleep, he would go splash some cold water on his face. How could he not have foreseen that sharing a bed with her was a horrible idea? She wasn't ready, and to be truthful, neither was he.

But then, she'd started moving - towards him, not away - with the caution of a deer being hunted, and she was touching him. Willingly! There was no way she couldn't tell he was awake, not with how close her head rested to his racing heart. Still, he waited for her muscles to go slack and for the light purr of her snore before wrapping his arms around her form and holding her close to his chest. It wasn't enough, but it would do for now.

* * *

 **oz diva : I think it goes beyond Canadians and Scots - I'd say a lot of men are averse to counseling. I chalk it up to a society in which gender-specific behavior still holds importance: woman are taught to work out their feelings by talking, whereas men are encouraged to work out their feelings by acting.**

 **OriginalMcFishie** **: Don't worry - I have no plans of making it easy on anyone!**

 **elizasky** **: The Jem/Gilbert parallel Sarah draws in SfA is more character than consequence based. I think she was just noting that they share similar traits (among which the need to be liked), and possibly feeling nostalgic. But now that you mention it, I might explore the road you suggested! As for Gilbert's jealousy, I think of it as more basic: he resents that Anne couldn't stay with him, but was able to form a bond with a perfect stranger, innocent as it may have been. You are spot on about his promise to change, though - he might have said almost anything from fear of losing Anne again.**


	3. Parting again

On Saturday afternoon, both Gilbert's mother and father brought him to the station. Anne was already waiting there when he arrived. Fred Wright, who had driven her over, stood patiently by her side. Other than them, the place was nearly deserted.

"Did you not bring the boys?" Gilbert asked her, looking around while his parents exchanged pleasantries with Fred. Anne pointed behind him at the far end of the platform, where Walter and Jem seemed to be building some kind of snow fort.

"Nice to see them play together, for a change," he noted out loud.

"It is." Anne's agreement was heartfelt, and when he turned back to make eye contact with her, he was surprised to find a small smile on her lips. He returned the sentiment: their kinship was still somewhat intact, at least when it concerned their children. The moment was broken when his mother tugged on the front of his coat.

"You're leaving so soon," she moaned, fussing with his collar as though he were a toddler getting ready for church.

"Stop embarrassing him," his father teased. "He'll be back in just a week."

"And that's the other thing - all this traveling, in cold weather. You're bound to make yourself sick, Gilbert."

"I'll be fine, Mother." It was an automatic response he'd been giving her since he was a young student heading to Redmond. There was less cheek in his grin now, and he'd forgone the eye roll, though he _was_ looking forward to going back to work. Before he could, though, there was something he needed to do. He check that Anne was occupied - she was calling out to the boys, warning them not to take off their mittens - then stepped discreetly to the side, motioning for his parents to follow him. When they complied, he leaned in a bit closer so that they might hear: "Could you check on her from time to time?"

"Of course, Son. We will," his father assured him immediately, matching his undertone. When Sarah Blythe remained silent, both men stared at her.

"She's staying at Green Gables!" she exclaimed defensively. Gilbert immediately shushed her, but Anne showed no sign of having heard. Sarah went on, quieter but with no less heat: "I doubt Marilla would appreciate us showing up unannounced all the time!"

"Then do announce yourself. Or, better yet, have her over for tea. Mother, I need you to do this. Please."

She sought for something in his eyes; he returned her look, unyielding. After a beat, she nodded, exhaling deeply through her nose. "Alright, Gilbert. If it you need it..."

"I really do, Mother." He bent over to kiss her cheek. "Thank you."

The train engine hooted from a distance, and Gilbert went to greet Fred while Anne fetched the boys from their half built snow palace to say their goodbyes. "I can't thank you enough for keeping the boys," Gilbert said, shaking his childhood friend's hand.

"No problem," Fred shrugged. "Di said to say 'thanks' for the ham, but you really didn't need to send anything over."

"I know how my son eats," Gilbert's hint of a grin turned wry.

Fred chuckled. "He makes up for it in chores. You've got a natural farmer, there." Gilbert nodded his appreciation, both pleased and saddened by the compliment. The boys came charging over, excited and chattering from their time playing in the cold. "Be good, and take good care of your mother for me," he instructed, hugging Jem, then Walter. "And mind your Uncle Fred and Auntie Di."

"We will," they each promised, and got the back of their knit-covered heads patted lovingly. Gilbert shook Fred's hand again, hugged his father and mother, then turned to Anne.

"Call me if you need anything before I get back."

"We'll be alright," she told him, her voice calm. "I'll be fine." For some reason, the conductor's boarding call made his eyes prickle. He blinked quickly and tried to swallow past the sudden anxiety rising in his throat.

"Yes, well - I'll be seeing you next week." He contorted his mouth into a horrifyingly tremulous grimace he hoped would pass for a smile. Rested his hand on her arm lightly, and turned to go so that he might get a hold of himself. Only, it was Anne who'd gotten a hold of his sleeve first.

"Will you be alright, Gil?" she asked softly, her eyes full of concern. It was exactly what he'd wanted to hear - that she cared. His face softened into a genuine smile, this time.

"I will be." Moved, and possibly emboldened by the fact that he could lose control of his tear ducts later in the privacy of a nearly empty wagon, Gilbert deposited a tiny kiss on her cheek, and boarded as the conductor's shrill whistle rang out.

* * *

 **A/N:** **Thank you all for reading and reviewing! I am amused that there seems to be a Team Jack and a Team Gilbert forming (if there were, I'd be a team Gilbert, but that's just me...). In the beginning, Jack was only supposed to be a passing character in TDW: enter, provoke Anne, exit stage left. Somehow, how he managed to become a main character in SfA - I'm not even sure we've seen the last of him! Thoughts?**

 **oz diva** **: Edging! That's the word I've been digging for. Thank you! Now I want to go edit chapter 2, though I fear that once I start, it may take an entirely different shape. I initially wrote out the exchanges with Dr. Lebrun, but they were dragging the chapter, turning it into a snoozefest.**

 **guest** **: I understand your concern regarding the boys' reaction. They are, as you pointed out, quite young (I have Jem here as an 8-9 year old, and Walter around 5-6). Through their point of view, their mother simply disappeared one day, their father got angry, then sad, and they went to live with their aunt and uncle. If you read carefully, I never actually did say that either boy was happy about seeing Anne - merely that Jem had a meltdown when his parents were getting ready to leave again. I see it as a normal reaction from a boy whose mother went missing. Mostly, I think that Walter is too young to know how to hold a grudge properly, and that Jem is focused on enjoying life with the Wrights so that he doesn't have to deal with troublesome thoughts. Don't worry, neither brother has forgiven or forgotten anything quite yet! I might expand on their relationship with Anne sooner than later.**


	4. Like father, unlike son

"What would you do in my place, Diana?" asked Anne, placing a dripping dish on the rack. "If _you_ 'd overhead Fred's mother saying that she didn't want to visit you, unless her son _begged_ it of her?"

"Well," Diana started slowly, polishing a fork dry with her kitchen rag, "I suppose I would find a gentle way to bring it up." An orange eyebrow quirked up, and she continued in a hurried tone. "I'd perhaps hint at how it might make one feel, and hope that she catches on. I'm _sorry_ , Anne! I've never been in that position before."

"Of course you haven't," Anne grumbled under her breath. "You've always been the perfect daughter, it only follows that you would be the perfect daughter-in-law." The icy silence that ensued, perforated only by the clink of dishes being dried and put away, made her amend her statement. "I didn't mean it like that. Di, you're lovely in every way: You've always known how to please your elders; your manners are impeccable. It's no wonder Eloise Wright adores you; you're a wonderful wife, and goodness knows you're eons better than I at motherhood."

When she still made no reply, Anne set down the pot she'd been scrubbing and turned around. Diana was staring at her, astonished.

"Is that really what you think of yourself?" she asked sadly, shaking her head. "My etiquette is no better than yours, Anne. You were always the one who knew how to talk to people - I usually just froze and nodded. As for being a mother, nearly everything I learned about children came from you! I've seen you with Minnie May when she was a toddler, she wouldn't even listen to me at that age. And you were always good with babies."

Here, there was a pause - their thoughts took the same direction, though neither would speak the words.

"Have you ever thought," Diana resumed when the customary silence had been observed an appropriate amount of time, "that being a wife and a mother was all I was ever destined to be? I was never good at school the way you were, and I definitely wasn't made to be a woman with a career. I don't even think I would have been able to leave Avonlea. But being a mother - that, I could do. Thank heavens it was Fred who wanted the same things I did - I shudder to think how it might have been with someone else."

This elicited a small appreciative smile from Anne. "He is marvelous, isn't he?" she teased, though the sentiment was genuine. Who would have thought that Fred Wright would turn out to be a most caring, loving father? The readiness with which he'd taken in her own sons humbled her, and she regretted ever having teased Diana about her red-faced, fumbling beau. Anne's grin slipped away just as swiftly as it had appeared. "If I could be half the mother and wife you are, I'd gladly give away any of my other qualities."

At this, Diana had to breathe carefully, so as not to start crying. "We can only really be ourselves, I think. And you are a great mother. Needing help doesn't make you any less so."

She knew as she said it that Anne wouldn't quite accept her assurance, so Diana moved on for the moment being. "I'm afraid I haven't been able to help with your question, though. What will you do?"

Anne sighed resignedly. "I suppose, if one can only really be oneself, then that's what I shall do. I'll go over tomorrow afternoon, if you don't mind."

"You'll speak to her, then?" Anne nodded. "Would you like me to go with you?"

"Thank you, dearest Diana, but no. It's time for me now to be brave."

"You're the bravest person I know." Diana deposited a sisterly kiss on Anne's forehead, and they finished cleaning the dishes from Sunday dinner.

* * *

It was a much less confident Anne who knocked at the door of the Blythes' house on Monday. If the talk with Diana had left her apprehensive, she now felt ready to jump out of her skin. All the rephrasing of what she would say in her head any spare minute she had, rehearsing the conversation with her soft boiled egg at breakfast, self-affirmations on the walk over, all vanished the moment she'd reached the gate. She was so tempted to turn back, but decided that she'd done enough running away for a lifetime. As Dr. Lebrun had said: if Anne Shirley was not meek, there was no good reason for Anne Blythe to be.

She waited as long as her patience would allow, then knocked again. Still no answer, and so she went around the property, thinking she might catch Mrs. Blythe doing chores out back. Disappointment mixed with relief when she found no sign of activity in the yard.

"Well, this is a nice surprise."

The voice right behind her made her jump, and she yelped in surprise. Hazel eyes twinkled at her, a mischievous look so familiar that the words _'You scared me, you goose!'_ might have slipped from her lips. Only, the shoulder beside her was a fraction lower than the one she would have shoved in annoyance. The man's brown hair was a bit straighter and carried more gray streaks under its cap - other than that (and also the twitching mustache), it was an older version of Gilbert Blythe who stood chuckling at her.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," apologized John Blythe with no small amount of amusement. "Heard you knocking while I was sitting on the porch. Was on my way to get the door, but these bones don't move the way they used to."

"Oh! I didn't mean to interrupt your rest. I'm sorry, I should have called - I'll try again some other time. Sorry!" Anne took a step back, ready to flee.

"Sarah's running errands, she won't be back for a while. Suppose you keep me company for a bit? I'll put on some tea."

"I'll take care of it," she accepted his invitation, his good humor rubbing off on her a little. They stomped the snow from their shoes before letting themselves inside, and Anne wasted no time in pulling out the china while he fed a log into the stove. In a matter of minutes, they were warming their hands on their teacups, sitting in companionable silence.

"Gilbert called to let us know he'd reached the Glen safely," said John after a while. "Sounds like he's glad to get back to work."

Anne nodded. From the little catching up they'd done, Gilbert admitted that he'd taken quite a bit of time off. Ever the hardworking man, she could only imagine how eager he was to return to the clinic. Yet another consequence of her running away - even her husband's job had suffered. Well, what had she expected?

To be fair, when she'd first thought of leaving, she'd imagined life would go on undisturbed for those whom she loved. Only now, having seen the deep grief that still left Marilla weakened, the anxiety in her sons' eyes whenever an adult left the house, the unpredictable changes in her husband's moods, did she understand how much how much they'd all depended on her, how badly she'd let them down. The turbulence that ensued her departure, that was all her doing.

"I'm sorry," she said. Not exactly what she'd come for, but she might as well practice apologizing now. It was hard to watch the amusement slip from John's expression, but she didn't divert her gaze. "I wasn't able to stay with him, and made rather a mess of things."

The man appeared to be thinking about what she said, and stayed so for a while before shrugging. "Well, I don't know that the fault can be placed on any one event or person. If anyone is to blame, though, it's me."

"You?!" Her eyes widened like big gray saucers, and despite the gravity of the subject, John could not help but smile at the memory of an eleven-year-old girl with bright orange pigtails, enormous eyes, and an even broader curiosity.

"We didn't want Gilbert to go to Redmond," he said soberly. "Sarah mostly hated the idea of him being so far from home. I was more worried about the influence a place like that would have on him."

"You must believe me when I say that Gilbert always behaved admirably at school," Anne pleaded earnestly. "He was always courteous to everyone, and he never-"

"Oh, I know," John interrupted. "It's not that kind of influence that worried me. He was too busy studying for that." He took a quick sip from his teacup. "People who put too much stock in smarts - who think highly of themselves, and look down on others. Feel somewhat superior to the under-educated folk."

"John," her voice trembled. "Gilbert has the utmost respect for you. He always said you were a wonderful model for him, growing up."

His smile stayed sad. "And yet, all he could think of was getting as far away as possible. He hated the idea of staying here and taking over the land - just hinting about it made him act like a fly trapped against a window."

Anne nodded. She understood how that felt. "He never could have been anything other than a doctor. It's his calling: he was meant to heal. And he does it so well, John! If only you could see him at work, you would be so proud of him."

"I am proud, but why couldn't he have started a practice here? Or even the next town over? Families are increasing, population is expanding - he still would have done fine. Why did he have to move all the way to Glen St Mary, if not to prove how different he was from me?" John leaned back in his seat. "Family is what matters most to me. I've tried to impress that value on him, so many times. Now, he's back at work, while you're still here."

"I made that choice. He's been away from his patients too long, and I want to be with the boys, and Marilla. Gilbert and I are having some - er, issues, but it's no reflection on your parenting. Everything Gilbert is, he owes to you and Sarah." Anne slowed down her speech, a bit more at ease now. "This burden isn't for you to bear, please believe that if there is anyone to blame for our problems, it's certainly not you. Actually, I came to tell Sarah that you don't need to check on me. I already have Marilla looking after me, and Rachel, even Davy is staying a bit longer. So, please don't feel obliged."

Her reassurance did not have the effect she'd hoped for - John's face fell completely. "You heard, at the station?"

She thought about lying, but decided against it. "Yes. But it's alright."

"No. It's not. Sarah is - well, she's a tad protective when it comes to Gilbert. He's our only son, and I'm afraid she's sometimes rather blind when it comes to his faults. I can't say I'm unbiased, but the boy does make mistakes. He's sure made some doozies with you. So have I."

His earnest look made her want to beg for him to stop, but she found herself unable to articulate anything. "I knew you were unhappy, for a long time now. Watched you put on a smile for us, for him, when you were hurting inside. I didn't say anything, because...well, I thought it wasn't my place. It didn't quite occur to me that you might not have talked to anyone. Even Marilla didn't seem to catch on - I suppose you hid it best from her."

A horrid ball obstructed her throat, making it hard to breathe. Still, he persisted.

"I'm sorry I never talked to you about it. You can say it's none of my business, and that's alright. But you don't have to pretend."

With his last words, a dam opened in her, and sobs came pouring out, racking her thin body. John moved his chair over so that he could wrap his arms around her in a protective, paternal embrace, letting his shirt absorb her tears while he rocked her from side to side, as one would a small child.

* * *

 **A/N: Friends, I've dug myself into a hole. Didn't you warn me about psychology and therapy being perhaps not very time sensitive, and inappropriate for the era? Yes. Did I listen? No. So now I'm in trouble, trying to make these "sessions" work. Behavioral studies have been around since the beginning of mankind, they just weren't considered a legitimate science (let alone medicine) by most cultures until quite recently - and many still remain skeptical today. Nevertheless, I will figure it out, and incorporate some of the session bits with Lebrun, and elaborate on the game plan Anne and Gilbert have worked out. In the meanwhile, thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and bearing with me! xo**

 **elizasky : I see Sarah Blythe as being protective of Gilbert's feelings, and a little bit of a mama bear - most likely something to come in following chapters. You hit it on the nail about Anne unable to receive help - I'd even venture that she doesn't trust anyone around her would be able to help her the way she needs, regardless of how hard and unrelentlessly they are willing to try. **

**OriginalMcFishie** **: See note above! I'll try to fit in some of Lebrun's recommendations soon.**

 **oz diva** **: I definitely will add some of the exchanges with Lebrun soon - just trying to make them sound realistic and not too corny!**

 **NotMrsRachelLynde : Thank you! Hopefully the tension won't last forever, though it certainly is easier to write this way (so far). **

**AnneFans : I am team Gil too! 'Pathetic oaf' is only Jack's perception of him. And on occasion, Gilbert sees himself as pathetic. The other characters (and the author) think he is marvelous, charming, and perhaps a bit misguided. **


	5. First Name Basis

Unlike Lebrun's home, Dr. Nott's office was an actual office. It was conveniently located in the newer developments of the Glen, and did not come remotely close to any of Gilbert's house calling routes. Aware of how suspicious the gesture had made him, he still did a quick check over his shoulder before ringing the doorbell. A very young man with large, brown eyes let him in and ushered him in toward the front desk.

"My name is Dr. Blythe, I...uh, I have an appointment with Dr. Nott?"

"Ah, yes, we're expecting you. Barney Hepburn," the receptionist introduced himself, extending his hand eagerly, like a dog who'd been taught to 'shake'. "You're a bit on the early side, but I do think..." the young lad leaned over to peer down the hallway on his right,"Ah, yes, I do believe we can go in. Right this way, please!" And before Gilbert could ask, the lad took off with the exuberance of a young pup, leaving him no choice but to follow down the hall, and through the first door on the left.

Whatever he had expected, Dr. Nott's office wasn't it. The room was clinical and tidy: several seats, a desk, bookshelves, charts and diagrams on the wall. No personal touches: no photographs, doilies, flowers - just a neat, clinical workspace.

"Dr. Blythe," the man sitting at the desk stood and went to shake his hand. "Thank you for being early - I do appreciate promptness. Please have a seat, wherever you'd like."

This, Gilbert realized with shock, was..."Dr. Nott?"

"Please, call me Kenneth. Do have a seat. Anywhere is fine." Gilbert slipped out of his coat, which the receptionist took along with his hat, and opted for the nearest armchair. Dr. Nott, or 'Kenneth', sat on the couch across from him, allowing for a closer look: he was a good looking bloke, with golden blond locks, and deep blue eyes framed by impossibly long lashes: if he were to guess, Gilbert would have put them at just about the same age.

"Alright," said the doctor, seating himself on the couch across from him. "Pierre said that he would send over copies of his notes. In the meanwhile, he's briefed me about your situation. As per his recommendation, you and your wife are currently living separately?"

"Just for the time being," Gilbert bristled at the implication, though the doctor's expression held neither amusement, nor attack. "She has matters to tend to back at home, and I work here in the Glen."

"And where is home for you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Dr. Nott fixed him with an neutral stare. "You said that your wife is currently at home, and that you work in the Glen. What place would you identify as home?"

Confused, Gilbert jumped at the sound of soft scratching. He realized with a start that the receptionist was sitting in the far corner of the room, scribbling rapidly in a large notebook. Nott followed his gaze, and explained: "Barney is my assistant. He will be taking notes during our sessions."

The boy in question stopped writing and looked up expectantly - Gilbert eyed him dubiously. "Dr. Lebrun promised sessions would be private. He never mentioned an assistant."

"Ah." The handsome man nodded, his face still impassive. "While Pierre may be able to take his own notes while conducting a session, I find that writing inhibits observation my abilities. As for the privacy of our sessions, please rest assured that both Barney and I adhere to the strictest confidentiality. Nothing of our exchanges will ever leave this room, or be discussed with anyone else without your explicit permission and consent."

Gilbert felt as though he was being backed against a wall. He knew these sessions were a bad idea - he shouldn't have agreed to them. "Dr. Nott-"

"Kenneth, please. May I call you Gilbert?"

Was the man serious? "I prefer to go by Dr. Blythe."

"Titles and formalities tend to detract from one's core: first name basis would be best. May I call you Gilbert?"

His collar felt tight. He resisted the urge to tug at his tie. "I can't do this," he said quietly.

"What can't you do?"

"Any of this." Gilbert shook his head. "It goes against everything I've been taught. I can't call you Kenneth, and I can't let you call me Gilbert. And I won't discuss my personal life."

Dr. Call-Me-Kenneth studied him, his fingers steepled in front of his pursed lips. Gilbert was about to ask for his coat, when the man asked: "You are a doctor, are you not?"

"Well - yes," Gilbert answered slowly, confused.

"And you treat all parts of the body?"

"Most," he amended. "But I don't understand what that has to do with anything."

"Indulge me, please. Do you ever ask your patients to remove their clothing?"

Oh. "Only when it's necessary, but yes, I do."

"Have you ever had a patient who was reluctant to disrobe?"

"It's happened," he answered vaguely.

"What do you do when this happens?"

Gilbert gulped. He did not like this, not one bit. "I try to put the patient at ease, and explain that I can't treat them properly when their clothes are in the way."

"And if they refuse?"

His hands felt cold and clammy as he replied: "I- I'll try to reason with them. I'd do my best to put them at ease, promise to respect their integrity. Compromise - let them keep a layer of clothing."

The man nodded. "Alright, I can do that. I can certainly promise to leave your dignity intact - my aim is to help, not to harm. And if you agree to show me what I need to see, I will let you keep one layer, should it put you at ease." He raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

Gilbert analyzed the situation rapidly. He didn't have to be here - no one was forcing him. He knew what was at stake, though: he'd already lost Anne once, he didn't relish the idea of her walking out of his life a second time. And he did have to agree with her on one point, at least: they couldn't go on as they had. Something had to change.

"Alright. I'll do it, doc- Kenneth."

* * *

"Is it over cooked?" asked Anne, poking at the darkened ends of the roast she'd just pulled out of the oven. "I think I left it in too long."

"Maybe a little." Marilla looked over her shoulder. "It seems fine, though. There's enough juice in the pan to make a gravy."

"I don't think I could make one in time, Gilbert is due any minute."

"I'll take care of it." Marilla nudged her out of the way. "Why don't you bring Jem in to wash up for supper? Walter's already clean."

Anne deposited a kiss on her winkled cheek, and went to tear her son away from the trench he'd been digging all afternoon. When she'd peered outside, though, she found his snow structure had been abandoned. Her senses went on alert when she saw him running toward the edge of the property as fast as his legs would allow, but tamped down her alarm when she recognized the bundled figure approaching from the other side of the fence. She should have another talk with Jem regarding safety and running off...perhaps she'd wait until things were more settled.

"Dad!" she heard him call happily as Gilbert shut the gate behind himself, using his grip on the fence to stay upright as Jem came barreling into him.

"Hey there," he tugged affectionately at the hat Rachel had knit for Jem. Anne heard the fatigue in Gilbert's chuckles, but he smiled attentively nonetheless to a child's rousing accounts of a week's worth of adventures.

Watching their exchange, Anne couldn't help but envy the easy nature of their relationship. Why couldn't she have this with her boy? Why wasn't she able to satisfy the simple obligations of a mother toward her child? A better parent wouldn't shy away from discipline. She would never strike Jem, but he needed boundaries. She'd never had much trouble with authority as a teacher (save a certain Pye), why should it be any different with her own offspring? "Jem, what did I say about staying where I could see you?" she asked, and his face fell, destroying her newfound self-assurance.

"But Dad could see me," Jem protested.

Gilbert shrugged. "Your mother's right, son. It's for your own safety."

"I'm not a baby!" Jem stomped the snow angrily, the puerile gesture contradicting his argument. "I'm big enough to go places by myself. Freddie doesn't have to be watched, and neither do I!"

One quirk of his father's eyebrow was enough to quell Jem's tantrum. "Your cousin Freddie is several years older than you, and he grew up around here. If whining is your way of showing us how mature you are, consider me not impressed." Jem lowered his head, pouting, but nodded. "Alright, then. Why don't you head on inside? I'll follow right behind."

"Be quick washing up for supper!" Anne called after him as he scampered off sulkily. Both adults started when he slammed the front door - Marilla would step in, this time.

"I was way too soft on him," Gilbert sighed. "My father never would have let me sass back like that."

"I've been lenient as well," Anne confessed. "I'm used to Walter being the moody one. I think that Jem might be rather affected by the recent events."

"We all are." It wasn't a reproach, but she still felt a pang of guilt at the reminder. "But it doesn't excuse his acting out. Maybe we should have that talk with them both tonight, after supper." Upon noticing how pale her cheeks had turned, he added: "Unless you'd rather wait till tomorrow morning, after church?"

She shook her head. "Tonight is as good as any other time. How was your trip?" she changed the subject abruptly. "Surely you didn't walk all the way here?"

"My mother picked me up from the station. She had some errands to run, so I had her drop me off at Murphy's corner."

Errand, her hind foot. Sarah Blythe had been meticulously avoiding her. Anne added making up with her mother-in-law to her seemingly never ending list of wrongs to right. "I would have gladly come for you at the station."

"I was glad for the walk, after sitting in a train for so long." Gilbert caught the look on her face, and quickly added: "But I'm glad to see you now." He caressed her shoulder gingerly, surprised when he felt her shiver. "You're not dressed for being outside! Let's head in before you freeze."

"What will we tell them?" asked Anne, her teeth chattering as powdery snow caught on the hem of her skirts.

"I suppose we keep it simple." He finished unbuttoning his coat and shrugged it off. "Here," he paused in the middle of the path connecting the gate to the front door to drape the coat over her shoulders, warming her from the inside out. She was surprised to feel disappointment when he didn't keep his arms around her when they resumed walking. "We'll tell them that you want some time with Marilla, and that I need to be at work. I'll visit every weekend until the snow melts, and when the spring term starts, you three'll move back home, and they can go back to school."

He stopped just short of the door. "Will you be ready by then? I don't want you to come home unless you're sure."

She heard what he wasn't saying: _I don't want you to leave me again._

"I don't know whether I'll ever be totally certain," she said truthfully," but I need to try, I'm sure of that. And the boys need to be home - they miss you terribly."

Gilbert considered her. For a moment, she thought he might touch her - but he simply nodded. "I'll be glad to have them back. Ingleside's been feeling mighty empty."

As she followed him indoors, Anne couldn't help but notice that Gilbert hadn't included her in his sentiment.

* * *

 **PelirrojaBiu** **: Thanks! It was my favorite chapter to write so far :)**

 **stillpink : Good point about Gilbert's parents. I somehow feel that even if Mrs. Blythe had witnessed what Mr. Blythe had after that ball, she would feel more empathy toward her son. **

**oz** **diva** **: It's a beautiful name! In SfA, I made Anne Cordelia's third name Eloise as well, for her grandmother. I adore John Blythe as well - if you'll indulge my curiosity, who would be your first favorite character?**

 **Kim Blythe** **: I'm not sure about Jack yet...he might pop up later, who knows!**

 **elizasky : I love this John Blythe! Come to think of it, I love all representations of Gilbert's father. I'm trying my best to work the boys back in, but am having a dog of a time having them interact with Anne. They will make an appearance sooner than later, though. Anne nearly mistaking John for Gilbert comes from real life (like most elements in my fiction): my husband, his father and his brother all have the same exact voice pitch and tone. Confusion and hilarity has ensued.**

 **AnneFans** **: You're right, "oaf" is kind of a lame insult. I originally wanted to use ****head, but couldn't come up with a less vulgar equivalent. Open to suggestions!**


	6. Chessboard

Being in a session with Dr. Nott held similitudes to speaking with a three-year-old Walter, Gilbert decided: everything he said was met with an inquisitive "why?" and the string of explanations that were given resulted mostly in Gilbert talking to himself. The initial questions with which the doctor came up were usually of the difficult and painful variety, and he had to choose constantly between dodging them or picking open a scab. And even though he was repeatedly encouraged to speak candidly and without too much forethought, it was in Gilbert's nature to measure his words . In the end, his hour spent with Kenneth and Barney resembled a chess match: one where he was particularly bad at anticipating the opponent's moves, and he would find himself suddenly trapped into a corner with no possible escape.

He'd told the doctor this, so he wasn't all that surprised to find an elegant wooden chessboard set up when he walked in for his following session.

"I figured we could give it a try," Kenneth explained. "Since you mentioned it, I inferred that you like the game?"

"I do." There was most likely a trap in here somewhere, but Gilbert couldn't find it. At any rate, it sounded safer than talking, so he sat down and opened, pawn to E4. Barney's pen scratching on the notepad was distracting, and even a bit disconcerting, since no one was saying anything: all the same, he didn't let his concentration slip. The doctor played fast and fairly well, but his attention kept going from the board to Gilbert, who chose to focus on the game.

"Checkmate," he declared with some satisfaction.

Kenneth nodded at him and smiled tolerantly. "You like to win."

Gilbert shrugged. "Who doesn't?"

"I suppose few don't." Kenneth leaned back. "Is winning the main reason to play chess?"

"Well, yes."

"Would you consider playing if your chances of winning were much lower?"

At this, he frowned. "Probably not."

"Could the same be said for your studies? You were a top student all throughout your schooling. Would you have strived as hard if you didn't think you had a good chance of coming out on top?"

Gilbert clenched his jaw. "You're trying to make a point, aren't you?"

"I'm simply wondering how this might have affected your career. You said that you often feel pressure to succeed, and to be well perceived at social functions. I can appreciate your motivation to provide for your family, but you don't appear to be hurting financially. Can you honestly say that money is the only reason you strive for awards and recognition?"

 _Checkmate_ , thought Gilbert painfully.

* * *

"Another slice of pie, Gilbert?"

Marilla had been acting odd around him ever since Anne's return. It wasn't unpleasant, exactly: she was being nice. Maybe too nice, as though she constantly worried that he would take offence. Her kindness rubbed him the wrong way - he wished she would yell at him, demand to know what he could have done that was so bad, her girl had run away. Instead, she smiled and tried to push an extra serving of dessert on his plate.

"No, thank you, I really couldn't" he said. "I should probably get going soon."

"Can you wait till I take care of the dishes?" asked Anne. "I'll give you a ride."

"Sure. That would be nice." Knowing all too well how Marilla felt about men in her kitchen, Gilbert moved to the sitting room and took a seat by the fireplace.

Recognizing this as an opportunity to get some time with his father, Walter climbed onto his lap and demanded to be told a story.

"Why don't you tell me a story instead?" asked Gilbert. It was a trick he'd learned from Fred - a brilliant way to occupy a chatty child for a while. Walter's soprano voice, the glow of the fire and the two slices of pie he was digesting lulled him into a warm, comfortable drowsiness.

He didn't even realize he'd fallen asleep until the boy on his thighs squirmed.

"Gently, now," he heard Anne whisper.

"It's alright, I'm up," Gilbert yawned and nudged Walter gently to the ground, wincing at the pins and needles shooting through his legs. "He's getting too big for that," he groaned, clearing the sleep from his throat.

"He is," Anne agreed, and they shared a wistful look, until Marilla's stern reminder to Jem that the staircase was not to be used as a battlement shattered the moment. Goodbyes were said, the horse brought out, and they took off into the cold evening.

"We might have to move up back to the Glen a bit earlier," suggested Anne. "This constant back-and-forth is exhausting you."

It had been one month since they'd settled into a new routine: Gilbert lived Monday through Friday in a blur of work and sessions, and caught the earliest Saturday morning train to arrive in time for supper at Green Gables. He would then spend the night at his parents, go to church with them on Sundays, and enjoy the rest of the day with his boys before taking the latest train back to the Glen.

"It's alright," he said. "To tell the truth, I could get used to having the weekends off. I've been getting most of my paperwork done on the train."

"How were your sessions this week?" asked Anne casually as they rode.

"Not bad. Only, don't ever ask me to play a game of chess."

Anne eyed him curiously. She didn't recall ever asking in the first place. "Have Dr. Lebrun's notes come up yet?"

"Dr. Nott says he's waiting until he can get us together - why are you pulling over? Are you alright?"

Anne drew in a shaky breath. "I have something to tell you." Gilbert stared, frozen, knowing he wasn't going to like whatever it was. "It's not easy...even though it's not really my fault. I had to...Dr. Lebrun helped me realize that."

Gilbert noticed how badly her hands were trembling, and tried to keep the fear from his voice. "Just tell me."

She swallowed audibly. "I killed a man." Saying it for the second time was much easier than the first, but the look on his face was starting to dissolve any confidence Anne had left. She diverted her gaze and quickly ploughed through the facts before the last of her courage could desert her. Two minutes in, she was speaking through streams of tears, but still managed to get through the worst of it.

"I don't know whether authorities were ever notified," she concluded. "I don't recall there being a funeral...there might have been, but I can't remember."

Gilbert made an odd sound, and when she faced him, she was stunned to see that his cheeks were wet. Her proper, stoic husband who never cried, was muffling his sobs with a glove, weeping for something that had happened to her decades ago. Her heart cramped, and she reached to brush the moisture glistening on his face.

Her hand never made it to his cheek: Gilbert swiftly pulled her against his chest, crushing her to him uncomfortably, but she didn't dare move. This was the closest Anne had felt to him in a long time, and she intended to savour the embrace as long as it would last.

* * *

 **stillpink** **: Thanks! I based Anne's parenting insecurities on this scene, which I see in real life everyday:**

 **Parent: Don't run with scissors/eat candy before dinner/be late for school!  
Child: *pouting* Fine, mom/dad, whatever.  
Parent: *sigh* I'm a horrible parent. **

**OriginalMcFishie** **: I see what you mean about the King's Speech! And well, you know what they say about doctors being the worst patients...**

 **oz diva** **: I can see why you like Marilla, she's a wonderful person. I have read some of your John/Marilla pairings - will have to revisit!**


	7. The Intimate Truth

"I'm glad you were able to communicate so openly," said Kenneth to the couple occupying the divan in front of him. "Have you been able to expand this new openness?"

The woman chanced a look at the man beside her. He didn't look back, but gave a non-committed gesture. "I see you shrugging, Gilbert. Would you share what's on your mind just now?"

"We could, if she'd allow it," he muttered to the doctor.

"Anne?"

She bit her lip. "I am trying," she said meekly. Gilbert scoffed audibly.

"It sounds as though you disagree," commented Kenneth, challenging him with a blank stare.

 _Amazing deduction skills, Doc,_ thought Gilbert. "She wouldn't even spend one night with me. She dropped all these awful things on me, and then she sends me on my merry way! As if I'm supposed to be able to sleep after all this!"

" _Have_ you been sleeping, Gilbert?" asked Kenneth in his usual detached manner.

"Of course not!" He nearly yelled, making Anne start.

"Why?" she asked, her voice unbearably small. "It didn't happen to you."

"It might as well!" he bellowed. Seeing her shrink into her seat, he inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to calm down. "Everything that happens to you happens to me," he explained in a much quieter tone.

She shook her head, but said nothing. "You seem to have a different opinion, Anne," said Kenneth.

"It doesn't work like that," she explained. "I'm the one to whom it happened. No one can take the pain from me. I know you want to," she addressed Gilbert now, "but it simply cannot be done."

"You won't let me try. You're not the only person to whom those bad things happened, Anne." Gilbert sighed, and went on with great difficulty: "When you lost...I lost her, too. You wouldn't let me near you, after that."

No one spoke for a while, Barney's scratching barely noticeable from his corner.

"What I'm hearing, Gilbert, is that you might have felt denied the closeness you'd needed after the passing of your firstborn child. Am I right?" Gilbert shrugged again, but nodded as well. "Anne, would you like to answer to that?"

"I was having trouble coping," she admitted. "I needed some time."

"Well, you've had years! I haven't touched you in years, Anne, or haven't you noticed?"

His harshness managed to provoke a rare eyebrow raise on Kenneth's face. "Your eldest son's conception took place shortly after the tragic incident, did it not? And another child, two years later?"

"Surely you've heard the term 'lucky shot'?" Gilbert sneered. "Well, that applies to both of them. On a night where _she_ felt sad, _she_ needed comfort, and I was there to bring it. Goodness forbid _I_ should be the one to want it." Seeing Anne clench her fists from his peripheral vision, he sighed and rested his forehead in his hands. "Sorry, that was uncalled for and crass. I apologize."

"Actually, I think this good. Let us look into this matter a bit: tell me of your intimacy, and how it was before having children. Would you say it was more satisfying?"

"That's not up for discussion," Gilbert snapped.

"Anne?"

Both men turned their focus to the Anne, whose cheeks were colouring. She bit her lip and clenched her jaw, as though trying to rein herself in. "It was adequate, I'm sure," she said primly.

Gilbert blushed along with her. "Adequate?" Was that supposed to be a compliment or an insult? Either way, it was a poor attempt to satisfy the doctor.

"How would you be sure, Anne?" asked Kenneth. Gilbert tried to slice the man with his glare: it didn't work.

"Gilbert, would you agree with-"

" _It was terrible!_ _Alright?!_ " She hid her face in her hands so as not to see their reactions.

Gilbert could have been knocked over by a feather. He barely heard the doctor ask her to elaborate.

"It…" She lifted her head slowly, her wide eyed seeking his face, then down to her lap, fidgeting with her fingers. "It hurt," she said so softly, they barely heard her.

"It hurt?" Gilbert parroted dumbly. "What - I thought you enjoyed it." He shook his head. "Every time?" Her silence said it all. "Anne," he gasped through the invisible grip around his throat, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You never asked," she said simply.

"Well," said Kenneth after they'd stewed in silence for a while. "I think we have touched an important issue today - one that I recommend we revisit next time." Coats and hats were retrieved, polite formalities observed, and Anne and Gilbert found themselves standing on the street under a light fall of snow.

"Anne." He spoke her name in a way she hadn't heard before, like a prayer. "You know I would never, ever hurt you intentionally."

"I know that," she nodded, blinking when a flake caught on her lashes. "It's alright."

"It's not, though," he insisted. "Anne, you should have said something!" his voice rose with his angst. "What did you think, that I would have kept on hurting you?"

"It's a husband's right to…to lay with his wife," she recited dully. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her.

"It's a wife's right to refuse her body if she's in pain, or doesn't want to!" he nearly shouted, unmindful of their surroundings.

"Not ten minutes ago, you blamed me for doing exactly that!" Anne countered.

"That was before I knew I was hurting you!" He yelled out a curse, swerved violently around and took three steps away, breathing heavily. When he was again master of himself, Gilbert walked back to a chalk-white Anne, and met her bright grey eyes with his.

"Listen," he said, his voice quiet. "I'm not discussing this with the doctor anymore. I'm sorry, I just can't. But…I'd like you to know that I will never, ever hurt you that way again. Do you understand?"

He could see her swallow before she nodded. "Does this mean…we're through? That we won't…touch each other…anymore?"

His look was one of infinite sadness and resignation. "That's up to you," he said mildly. "I'd love nothing more, but not at the expense of... If you don't want to, then we won't."

Flakes fell in front of his eyes, but he didn't blink.

"I'd like to try again," she finally said. "But maybe - we'll go slow? I don't think we're ready for…"

"No, we're not," Gilbert said. "We'll go as slow as you need."

Neither spoke as they made their way to the train station.

"Gilbert - it'll be a while, still, before I'm completely ready to return to the Glen."

He'd suspected as much, but only nodded, not wanting to sound sullen.

"But I would like to try - maybe, if you'd like - when you come over on Saturday."

He gulped. "That's in two days. It won't be too soon...?"

"You did say we could start slowly," she said bashfully. His chest felt suddenly full, and he thought he might burst into a thousand pieces.

"We can. We will." The train whistle resounded, and he nodded. "Saturday, then."

She nodded back, and her eyes offered a smile where her mouth could not. "Saturday."

* * *

 **MissVintageMovie** **: Thank you so much for joining the series!**

 **OriginalMcFishie** **: I hope it does, too! It most likely will - I'm not really in control, just letting the story write me at this point.**

 **elizasky** **: You're not the first to feel that Kenneth's approach is a bit aggressive. The way I imagine it, to have someone as reluctant and dominant as Gilbert as a patient, one must assert authority straight away. As for springing Barney on him - I guess I see this doctor as someone fascinated by human behavior as a science, but with little social tact himself.**

 **I totally understand your feelings regarding Anne in chapter 5. The way she has trouble accepting people's feelings, and assimilates guilt for everything and anything, are traits I've come to associate with some forms of depression. I don't think she does these things knowingly or on purpose, but it certainly is aggravating to those around her!**

 **And as for Jem, I think he might avoid difficult situations more than Walter. I suppose he would rather go off and play in his imaginary world than face unpleasant feelings, whereas Walter would go to an adult and cry, and demand to be consoled if he needs it.  
**


	8. Saturday Night

Gilbert's knee bounced agitatedly under the table. He didn't know quite what to say. Not that conversation had ever been centric during mealtimes at Green Gables, but a meal with the children was seldom quiet.

Walter, usually the most vocal, was lost in a world far away from theirs, his fork dragging mindlessly through his mash (despite being told repetitively to eat it). Jem needed no such reminder: he was devouring everything on his plate with his habitual enthusiasm. Marilla chewed slowly, her eyes bouncing from Anne to Gilbert, and back to Anne... Good Heavens, did she know? Surely Anne had not told her. _Had_ she told her? She wouldn't. Gilbert felt his neck radiate with heat, and quickly looked down at his plate, simulating interest in the roast beef.

From the corner of his eye, he observed Anne cut her meat with clinical precision: small, controlled gestures she'd tried to teach Jem - in vain, when the boy insisted on sawing through the animal as though it was still alive and needed to be slaughtered yet. She'd barely acknowledged Gilbert since his arrival. She had to be as anxious as he was: he wished she would look at him just once, to let him know it was going to be alright.

 _You can stop complaining now,_ he chided himself. _You're not the one who's been hurt by this before._ Kenneth had kindly reminded him of the fact yesterday, and while extremely reticent to discuss their marital bed, Gilbert had listened.

When it was time to clear the table at last, he took on the task of readying the boys for bed, thinking he could expedite things a bit. His logic would have held up, had Walter not suddenly remembered he needed his stuffed animal, and could not sleep without it. A house-wide search ensued, and Mr. Moose was recovered from under Matthew's old armchair - his front left paw dangling dangerously by a sole thread. Jem's explanation that the brave animal had been 'wounded in battle' did nothing to assuage Walter's anguished wails.

The noise had brought Anne racing up the stairs, and she'd spent the following fifteen minutes consoling a sobbing child, promising to stitch up the victim, while Gilbert had a stern talk with the slightly older boy about respecting others' property. When at last Walter had cried himself to sleep, both parents tiptoed out of the room, closed the door noiselessly and sighed.

"Well," he said quietly, his tone grim. "That was fun."

Anne smiled. "They'll grow eventually. Soon, we'll be yearning for a time when a broken toy was the worst of their troubles."

Gilbert's own wry smile was tinted with nostalgia. "Are you done with chores? Can I help with anything?"

She shook her head. "Marilla said she'd finish up in the kitchen."

He raised an eyebrow at her and gestured toward her bedroom with a tilt of his head. Anne bit her lip and looked down, and for a moment he worried she would change her mind - until she gave a small nod. Gilbert stared at her, his heart racing as it had on their wedding night, and held out his hand. Anne made his pulse race when she set her fingers there, and he gave them a light squeeze before gently tugging her down the hallway.

Once safely inside, Gilbert lead her to the bed and sat down next to her. Taking note of her trembling figure and rapid breathing, he took her hands and placed her palms against his chest.

"Stop me if I do anything you don't like," he instructed, resting his own hands lightly behind her shoulder blades. Her eyes shone, and she nodded again. "Will you let me kiss you?"

The gallantry of it all moved Anne to tears, and all she could do was nod a third time. Gilbert leaned closer, so close she could feel his breath, so close she could hear the thrum of his pulse, and his mouth descended on hers, touching her lips for the briefest amount of time that could still be called a moment. He backed up to check her eyes, but Anne wouldn't let him ask again: instead, she closed the divide between them, pressing her lips to his. One kiss, then two...a third one, with lips slightly parted, then her timid tongue seeking his own...

Nature took over, and Anne found herself clinging to Gilbert's shoulders as she drank deeply from his mouth, their tongues entwining. She had only been kissed like this once before, and the feelings were as wonderful now as they had been then.

Gilbert slowly wrenched himself from her grip, and she couldn't help the moan of protest that escaped her. "You tensed up," he commented, panting for breath.

"I did?" Anne hadn't noticed.

"Was that alright?" he asked. She gaped at him, but the concern in his eyes would not leave until she said so.

"It was- delightful." She tried to pull him back to her, but he shook his head.

"Give me a second," he asked, trying to breathe slower. "I need to get a hold of - myself."

"Oh." Anne's eyebrows furrowed slightly, then shot up. " _Oh_."

"Yeah." Gilbert looked up at the ceiling, and tried to calm 'himself' down.

"We don't have to do this now, if you're not...disposed," suggested Anne. Was he being hopeful, or did she actually sound disappointed?

"Oh, I'm disposed, alright," he grumbled. "Too disposed, as it is." Her eyes grew the size of saucers, and he wondered if one could catch a fever from embarrassment. It certainly felt plausible. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's just that it's been a while, and you...well, I'm - some physical reactions can't be helped."

"It's not uncomfortable. I'm just...well, I didn't know you still felt that way, even after the pregnancies. It's flattering, really."

"You were beautiful with our children inside you," Gilbert assured her. "I've always had this reaction to you, Anne. It's just a bit harder to hide when we're sitting this close to each other."

He looked at her expectantly, and was in peril of getting frustrated, when another pearl of wisdom from his sessions floated to the front of his mind: _talk it through, instead of assuming you know all the answers._ "Is it the same for you?" he asked.

Anne jerked in surprise. "I think it's different for women," she said slowly, as though trying to answer a young pupil's question without making them sound stupid.

"I meant, about being attracted...do I please you physically, Anne?"

The only thing worse than wide-eyed blinking would have been laughter: mercifully, she wasn't so cruel as to laugh at him. "Where is this coming from?" she asked incredulously.

He shrugged, turning to face the wall. "I don't know. I've been taking a lot of things for granted, and I didn't want to assume...I mean, I'm alright, but maybe your tastes differ. Garrison's got a rugged kind of charm going for him."

"Jack?!" Anne choked back a giggle. "He's so _short_!"

"Yeah, then what about Kenneth? He's plain good looking. Maybe golden hair and fair skin are your sort of thing."

This time, she did laugh. Anne fell back on the bed and quickly muffled her outburst with a pillow. "Gil," she panted when she'd mostly recovered, "where are you getting all of this?"

His scowl made her tamp down her own amusement, and she pushed herself back up into a sitting position. "If you must know, Kenneth is alright-looking, but sorely lacking in many departments."

"Well, he's not short," Gilbert pointed out, still sulking.

"He's not you," she explained. This caught his attention. "All the young men who've entered my life fell short, because they had to measure up to you."

Her eyes spoke as sincerely as her words, and Gilbert felt a rush of pride mingle with the tenderness in his throat. "I take it I did alright, then?"

"You never had to do anything. No one could ever come close to doing what you do to me...just by being you."

Gilbert pulled Anne into his arms, and wouldn't release her until sunrise.

* * *

 **I love my readers so much! I truly appreciate that the last chapter was met with a lot of understanding, and that no offence was taken.**

 **Does anyone recall that article that went viral on the internet a couple years ago? The one about the man who had what he thought was consensual sex with a woman, and was shocked when she claimed he'd raped her? Well, it made the news because he actually listened (I know, I know). So, I might have been a little bit influenced by that story.**

 **These discussions are important, especially nowadays. So, let's talk about sex!**

 **OriginalMcFishie : I understand your shock, but I think Gilbert first was just as well versed as Anne when it came to sex (which is to say, not at all), and Anne is particularly good at hiding pain when she sets her mind to it (in this series, anyway). **

**NotMrsRachelLynde : You're right, Gilbert never would have done anything like that on purpose! I think he's more frustrated than angry, anyway...**

 **MissVintageMovie : Thank you so much! I liked that line, too. #sohumble**

 **stillpink : I'm with you! Imagine having sex with someone and _never_ talking about any of it...*shudder***

 **Anne O' the Island** **: Haha, Call-Me-Kenneth is an annoying character, isn't he? In trying to avoid the grey-haired, bearded "and how does that make you feel?" stereotype, it seems I fell into another one: the brilliant** **scientist who gets too engrossed in studying people to act appropriately at times. Sounds like that therapist you describe!**

 **oz diva** **: You're absolutely right, I think that until last chapter, Anne hadn't fully realized how much her truth bomb was affecting Gilbert. And you totally called it - I'm struggling a little with what Marilla might know (or not). To be explored in the upcoming chapters!**

 **PelirrojaBiu** **: You bring up an interesting point: maybe Anne did feel rightly punished. Totally conceivable, but my mind had only gotten as far as her not knowing that sex didn't have to be painful.**

 **elizasky** **: I don't know if Gilbert was particularly inattentive - let's not forget, though that he would have been a virgin until his wedding night, and that he might have gotten a little caught up. Also, except for a few natural prodigies (bully for them), most people get "good" at the whole sex thing with practice and feedback. My first forays were catastrophic - I'm actually using them as a template for the wedding night.**

 **LizDexic** **: Thank you so much for braving the review section! I'm sure Dr. Blythe would have thought of lessening Anne's pain had he known she'd had any - I'll touch on that in the later chapters, promise!**


	9. Forgiven and Overheard

Walter's wails were becoming a habitual sound at Green Gables.

The cause was typically Jem, and this occasion was no exception: no adult had been able to decipher the details through the younger brother's indignant tears and wobbly voice, but it had something to do with babies and a doily. Unable to make any progress in the brouhaha, Walter was brought into the kitchen to be distracted with Auntie Marilla's famous shortbread, and a seething Jem was sent stomping up the stair case to his room.

"This is getting excessive," sighed Gilbert, rubbing his forehead.

"We have to put an end to this before it gets out of hand," Anne agreed.

He turned to address the situation, but she caught his sleeve at the last minute. "Should I go, this time? You've been doing all the scolding, as of late."

He looked at her and shrugged. "Alright - are you sure?"

She nodded, hoping to inspire confidence in her gait. _These spells ought to cure Marilla of any apprehensions of finding Green Gables empty next week,_ she thought sardonically as she climbed the stairs. _She might even ask Rachel to move out of her daughter's home in White Sands and come back. Jem wouldn't dare act this way with Mrs Lynde around._

"Jem, darling?" asked Anne in a soft voice upon entering the bedroom. "Won't you tell me what's wrong?"

The boy, who was sprawled out on his stomach on his bed, shrugged without lifting his face from the pillow. Anne sat down next to his despondent form and touched his back lightly. "You may be angry at Mama, if you need to be. But please don't take it out on your brother, sweetie. He doesn't deserve it. I know it might not make much sense right now, but one day, you'll realize he's your best friend. You might even feel lonely without him."

"What would you know about it?" came the sullen retort, directed to the wall.

Anne gave an unseen nod. "You're right. There's a lot of things about being a mother that I don't know."

"There's a shocker," he bit back, pushing his luck a bit too far.

Still, she kept an even temper. "I never knew my own mother. She was gone before I could learn anything from her."

"You had Aunt Marilla," Jem pointed out.

Gilbert stood out of sight, listening through the open door. He heard rustling, and pictured his son sitting up on the bed, his cheeks still flushed from the tantrum he'd thrown. "Didn't you say she was like a mother to you?"

"I was a bit older than you when I came to Green Gables," Anne reminded him.

"Well, Aunt Marilla's still a better mother than you!"

Gilbert was about to charge into the room, when Anne's calm voice sounded again.

"That's true, though she had her own mother from whom to learn. And sometimes, she made mistakes, though maybe not as many. The point is, I didn't grow up with a mother, or a family."

The silence took a different quality now - there was a tangible, thick sort of energy forming.

"Did you have pretend cousins? Like Freddie?" mused Jem curiously.

"I didn't, no."

"What about friends? Couldn't you pretend your friends were your cousins?"

A hesitation, and then..."I didn't really have any friends, darling. Not before coming here."

"Oh." One could hear the wheels in the little boy's mind turning. "Did you go to school?"

"A little. Not much."

"Did you have a house?"

"Sometimes."

"Were you at the orphanage the other times?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you make friends with the other children?"

There was a pause in their back-and-forth. "We all moved around, it was difficult to keep in touch."

Gilbert wondered if his son could hear the false note in her voice. He probably couldn't: Walter was the more observant of the two. Jem had always been easier to placate - up till now, at least.

"Were you lonely?" The candour of his question was highlighted by his boyish voice.

"We were kept fairly busy." The conversation had taken a turn, and was now being heavily edited to better suit a nine-year-old. As it was, Gilbert was surprised she'd revealed as much as she already had.

"At least there were grown ups taking care of you at the orphanage," reasoned the naïve child.

"The grown ups were busy, darling," Anne explained. "They didn't like little children very much. I might not be the best mother, but I will always be better than that. And when you grow up and get married, and you have children of your own, you'll do a better job than I have with you." Jem must have pulled a face, because she chuckled softly. "We have many years before that happens: when it does, I will be so proud of you. I already am."

At this point, the nine-year-old grew weary of the conversation. "Can I go play outside now?"

"You may, though you ought to apologize to Walter first. Why don't you invite him to play? I know he loves to build forts with you. Just - play nicely, alright?"

"Alright." He pushed off the bed and made to leave the room, but paused in the doorway and turned back. "Mama?"

"Yes, love?"

There was an odd look on her boy's face that cut her breath short.

"Maybe there're better mothers than you, but I'd rather have you anyway. Oh, hey, Dad!" exclaimed Jem, before stomping down the stairs in a much happier manner than when he'd come up.

Anne felt the life drain from her face. She'd been careful to speak quietly, but hadn't accounted for the fact that he might have been close by. How much had Gilbert heard? His grim face appeared in the doorway, indicating that he'd at the very least caught the drift.

"Gil, I..."

Words failed her, and he shut the door quietly behind himself. She could see that terrible air of sorrow in his eyes, and scrambled to find the words that would erase it immediately. Gilbert shook his head, as though he'd just read her mind.

"I need to hold you."

"You...need to hold me?" Anne repeated when he made no move to do so.

He nodded. "Please, let me hold you."

Anne felt stupid, then: he'd been asking for permission. She walked up to him to close the gap between them. His arms folded around her, loosely at first: when she didn't protest, his grip tightened. Petrified of offending him, Anne stayed still as long as she could, despite the ache in her calves, soothing him as best she could.

* * *

"Sounds like progress," agreed Kenneth, when relayed the outline of the exchange at their following session. "Anne, I'm curious to know the nature of the rift between you and Jem. It doesn't seem to exist in your relationship with your younger son."

"That would be my doing," admitted Anne. "They're both good children, really, but Jem's birth was rather difficult. I'm afraid I haven't made enough effort to be close to him."

"What are you talking about?" asked Gilbert. "His birth was easy. By far easier than..."

A respectful silence was observed. By this time, they'd grown accustomed enough to Barney's pen not to hear the scratching anymore: in fact, they barely noticed his presence in the corner anymore.

"That's why it was harder," explained Anne. "It all went so smoothly...one minute, he was inside me, and the next, he was out. And he cried, so much."

"I'm not that kind of doctor, but isn't crying seen as a good sign?" asked Kenneth. Gilbert nodded, confused.

"It is: I meant, after the birth. As a baby, he hated it when I held him - it was as if he could sense my fears. I had no idea what I was doing, and he knew it. He cried relentlessly, nothing I did would appease him. Sometimes, he would cry so hard he'd make himself throw up."

"I see. And what would you do?" asked Kenneth.

"I'd have to hand him to Susan, or Gilbert if he was around."

"And how would Jem react?"

"Instant calm." Anne didn't sound bitter, but her face was riddled with self-loathing. "I didn't know how to be a mother to him, I was so afraid to hurt him. I think he's forgiven me now, at least partially - I just hope the damage I've done to him isn't irreparable."

She accepted the handkerchief Kenneth handed her, and when Gilbert reached for her shoulder, she leaned into his touch.

"It seems as though he will be alright. The person you really need to forgive is yourself."

"How can I?" asked Anne. The doctor stared her down.

"What good will it do anyone if you keep punishing yourself endlessly?"

Anne turned to Gilbert, sadness and hope shining in his eyes, and thought of her beloved boys. "Alright," she amended. "I'll try."

* * *

 **oz diva : thank you! I promise to try and squeeze in some more direct Marilla scenes. **

**MissVintageMovie : I know...how could consent not be "sexy"? *sigh*...**

 **stillpink : I think that intense kisses had a tendency to escalate into something more very quickly if people weren't careful, I would guess that indeed Anne and Gilbert didn't get up to doing much before their wedding night!**

 **OriginalMcFishie : Glad the kiss didn't gross anyone out! Kisses aren't my expertise, I definitely could use more practice writing them. So, more to come!**

 **NotMrsRachelLynde : Thanks! I'm glad the wooing worked through all their awkwardness.**

 **elizasky : Thank you! She's interested in something, but is it sex? TBA in the following chapters!**


	10. A private night out

"Not that it isn't nice to see you for more than a glimpse before service on Sundays," commented John Blythe, "but what are you doing about work?"

"Oh, hush, and let him finish his food," scolded Sarah, pushing a chicken thigh on her son's plate.

"I'm full, Ma," he protested. "I took the week off at work. The clinic is getting by fine without me, and I took some paperwork with me."

His father nodded approvingly, and Gilbert took advantage of the distraction caused by the kettle's shrill whistle to slip the chicken under the table. On cue, the calico who'd been eyeing their early spread with interest trotted up to make a meal of it.

"Thanks for breakfast, Ma," said Gil as he balanced empty dishes and stacked them on the kitchen counter.

"Gilbert, honestly, you barely touched your food-"

"Quit coddling him, Sarah, it's embarrassing."

"Don't tell me how to raise my son!"

"He's an adult..."

He slipped out of the kitchen, unnoticed, without a second thought to their arguing. The light bickering was just that - the kind of verbal sparring his parents enjoyed. He swiftly climbed up the stairs into his room, inspecting himself carefully in the mirror. It was important that he look as presentable as possible today.

* * *

It was a bit too cool to be sitting outside, but Marilla didn't mind. Her eyes grew tired of candles and lamps easily, so she sought natural light for detail work.

Anne wasn't out for the light: her eyes were still fine. She was on the porch for two reasons: one was to bid farewell to winter, and welcome the first hints of spring. It was a bit premature, but if she strained, she could feel the early beginnings of change in the air. The second incentive to be outdoors was the company.

Just like the old days, Marilla occupied the straw chair, and Anne sat at her feet on the highest step: only this time, it was the older woman asking the endless questions, and the younger redhead answering shortly.

"Where will you be going?"

"I don't know."

"Do you know what you'll be doing?"

"Not even a clue."

"I don't suppose you know whether you'll be back in time for a late supper."

"He didn't say."

"John and Sarah said that they were prepared to keep boys overnight. You might be out late."

"Perhaps." From their vantage point, they saw the buggy approach before they could hear it. "He's here! How do I look? Is my hair holding up?"

"You're hair's fine, girl. Your vanity is showing, though," teased Marilla affectionately.

"I need a mirror!" Anne bolted up and ran indoors, leaving her guardian to greet the man who was now walking through the gate.

"Afternoon, Marilla," he called when he was within comfortable earshot.

"Afternoon," she called back with a twinkle in her eye.

"I hope you don't mind me abducting Anne for the night," he said lightly, walking up the porch steps.

"As convened. I wasn't sure if your mysterious plans included a meal, so I'll leave something out in the kitchen, should you want some late supper."

"Thank you. We might be late coming back, depending on how things play out. With the boys at my folks', you'll be able to enjoy some peace and quiet tonight."

"It'll be odd to have the house so empty," reflected Marilla. At this, Gilbert felt a twinge of guilt.

"We could come back early," he said quickly. They really couldn't, he'd planned it all so carefully, but he hadn't imagined his honorary mother-in-law might actually feel lonely by herself. "We might make it back in time for supper, if we rush."

But she only smiled and waved aside his concerns with her needle wielding hand. "I won't miss the ruckus - I'm sure I can appreciate a quiet evening. I may even turn in early. You two have fun."

Seized with a rush of affection for the old woman who'd intimidated him so as a boy (and even a little as an adult, if he were to be honest), Gilbert leaned in and placed a quick kiss on her cheek, surprising them both. Anne couldn't have timed her entrance better, as Marilla found herself rather voiceless at the moment.

"Gilbert," Anne greeted him breathlessly, her eyes roaming over his clothes. "You look...very nice."

"As do you," he said, procuring a nosegay seemingly out of nowhere (they'd been safely tucked in his back pocket). Anne blushed and accepted the arrangement. "Ready to go?"

"I would be, if I knew where we were going." She wondered how a grin could simultaneously be so infuriating and charming.

"All in time," he assured her, holding his arm out. Her heart beat a bit too fast as she held on, and they walked back towards the horse.

"Drive safely!" called Marilla briskly, finally having recuperated her faculties.

* * *

The drive was awkward and mostly quiet: good thing it had been a short one, as well. Or had it? Anne couldn't tell for sure how much time had gone by. She'd been to preoccupied, trying her best not to touch or look at Gilbert.

Both, of course, were impossible tasks: there was a dip in the passenger's side of the seat, and no matter how hard she tried to stay on her side, she kept slowly slipping back toward its center, closer to him. Bracing her feet at odd angles, she was just able to keep their thighs from making contact, but the strain on her muscles was too great, and she gave up after five minutes.

Keeping her eyes off him was just as hard. Despite her best efforts to focus on the road, the trees, the clouds - anything - she kept stealing glances at him. From the corner of her eye, she took in the shine of his freshly polished shoes, the good ones; the smart navy blue suit that made him sit straighter than usual due to its constrictive nature; the way his brown hair, darkened by oil, was carefully combed into a wavy pattern.

She'd seen him many times dressed like this (after all, they'd been to many an elegant function together), but for some reason, the way he looked now was doing something odd to her. She couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but it felt a little like embarrassment. And perhaps, a bit like shyness, as well.

"Here we are," Gilbert announced, snapping Anne from her musings.

"White Sands?" she asked, recognizing the red brick walls of the town hall. _Annual McDuffay-Clifton Reception,_ read the banner over the double doors through which people were filtering. "Were we invited this year?" she asked as he helped her out.

"Not exactly." The corner of his mouth jumped upwards, contorting his lips into his signature lopsided grin. Anne frowned: when Gilbert had requested that she wear her jade gown and decorate her hair with white flowers, she'd guessed they were either attending a dance, or going to a concert.

So, she'd been right: however, this was an event she happened to know was reserved for the younger crowd. She knew this for a fact, having attended during her Queen's years. Puzzled, she took Gilbert's proffered arm and followed him around the building, to a terrace at the back. They descended the steps that lead into the garden, and Anne looked around, mystified. If they weren't going inside, were they joining someone out here?

"It's just us tonight," he said as though he'd read her mind. "I thought we could enjoy the festivities at a safe distance."

"Why?"

It was an inelegant response that had slipped past her lips before her brain could censor it, and she immediately regretted the way it resonated harshly in the cool evening air.

If Gilbert was offended, it didn't show on his face or in his voice. "You used to love to dance. Remember how we'd circle the room like we owned it?"

A hint of a smile formed on her mouth. "I remember."

"So do I. You'd hang onto my shoulder and let me twirl you endlessly," he said, taking a step closer. "We'd chat, and you'd throw your head back and laugh, exposing your bare throat..." He leered at her neck, as though seeing through her wrap. "You'd look at me as if I'd achieved something, as if I'd hung the moon. You trusted me."

His gaze became intense. She swallowed. "I miss that," he finished quietly.

"I do, too," she whispered. From the open windows of the hall wafted the sounds of the orchestra starting a quick waltz.

"I thought we might try to get some of it back," he explained. "You used to like my touch."

Her eyes shone with tenderness. She enjoyed his touch as much as a cat enjoyed being scratched - she craved it. But he wouldn't believe her if she simply told him outright, and perhaps she wouldn't believe it herself, not fully.

"What do you say, Carrots? Trust your old chum once more?"

He held out a hand, looking at her expectantly but with a speck of doubt in his eyes. He had a plan: it was a good one. Anne decided to go along with it, and placed her fingers over his palm.

She'd imagined that he would take advantage of the situation to pull her flush to him, as he had dared shamelessly throughout their long engagement. Instead, he kept a gentlemanly distance between them, a posture more reminiscent of their days as schoolmates and as fellow teachers.

Remote as it made have seemed, it was no less pleasant to be guided along in the grass by Gilbert's strong arm. He'd always been a marvellous dancer, and Anne was able to ignore her surroundings completely, confident that he would keep them both clear of any obstacle.

After the waltz came a polka: they danced to it as well, in their own private, secluded hall. Anne admired the precision of his movements, the energy that hadn't diminished with age, the grace of his stance.

When a slow waltz followed, she hoped that he might hold her closer. This time, she was a bit disappointed to be kept at arms' length. Her eyebrows arched in a slight frown.

"What's the matter?" he asked, releasing her at the sign of displeasure. "Too much?"

She shook her head and took a large step closer, so close that her nose nearly collided with his chest. She took his arms and tried to secure them around her, so that his hold was less like a traditional waltz form, and more like a lover's embrace. "Not enough," she muttered.

He chuckled and rested his hand between the fine blades of her shoulders. "I'll do anything you want," he promised. "All you have to do is ask."

"Hold me closer," she demanded, and he complied, his feet resuming the steps just in time for one last spin as the music ended. The orchestra picked up a quadrille, but they stood still, gazes locked in each other.

"Gilbert," she gasped, her pulse pounding in her head.

"Anne," he responded in a strained voice, sounding as though he wasn't breathing properly. It was fearsome and exciting all at once.

"Please kiss me," she begged, unaware of how suggestive her request sounded. All she felt was need, and want, and thrill.

He raised his hands, and light fingertips grazed her cheeks: slightly shaking, they continued their trajectory, brushing her ears on their way to her hair, and it was his thumbs' turn to caress the flushed skin over her cheekbones. His head dipped, and she could hear a small, sharp intake of air before his mouth descended lower, closer... past her mouth, down to the bottom of her jaw, and pressed his lips on a most exquisite spot next to her chin.

Anne moaned and let her head fall back, and his mouth travelled down her bare throat, the wrap having been discarded during the polka, now forgotten somewhere in a pool of fabric on the grass. Continuing to the side of her neck, another delicious kiss, then inching up, up, pausing at her ear, his ragged breaths sending thrilled shivers down her spine. He nibbled her lobe so gently, it made her squirm with desire, and when she could endure no more, she turned her face to seek his lips with her own.

It was a clumsy kiss, urgent and bumpy, teeth colliding behind closed lips. Anne stood on the tip of her toes and braced her hands behind Gilbert's neck. "Let me try that again," she said, making him laugh, thus ruining the second attempt at a kiss.

"Relax," he grinned, pushing her heals back down to the ground. Again, he leaned over her, and their faces tilted to allow their lips to meet. Anne wasted no time in opening her mouth, eager to taste his, and Gilbert complied, letting her set the pace. Tongues met, getting reacquainted with each other, partnering in a dance of their own.

Gilbert hated to part, nothing but the need of oxygen to stay alive could wrench him from such a beautiful moment. He panted, enchanted by the sight of an equally discomfited Anne, with swollen lips, an a bit of redness around her mouth where her porcelain skin had met the roughness of his chin stubble.

"You're doing, it," Gilbert marvelled.

Anne blinked as though he were speaking a foreign language. "Doing what?"

"Looking at me like that. Like I'm worth something to you."

"You're worth everything to me," she said without abandon, and he believed her.

* * *

Three silhouettes, two human and one large animal, approached the fence protecting the perimeters of Green Gables. One might have thought them brigands at first, by the guilty hunch of their shoulders, and the suspicious glances they cast about while trying to open the back gate without making noise (the humans, that is - the animal didn't feel anything but peevishness). The theory would be dispelled quickly when they giggled conspiratorially, shushing each other like children trying not to get caught doing something slightly naughty.

The horse, unamused by the chuckling, expressed her annoyance vocally, making the humans turn their irritating hushing sounds on her. Soothing her neck with pacifying pets, the pair ushered her as silently as possible into the barn, and didn't emerge until the rooster's first call.

* * *

 **Here we go, a bit of fluff before diving back into the harder stuff. I wanted just one chapter where neither Anne nor Gilbert moans, weeps, cries, or holds back tears. Don't worry, fluff-haters: more grit and torment down the road! In the meanwhile, many thanks to all readers, reviewers and PM senders!**

 **OriginalMcFishie : Thanks! This was always going to be rough on the children, but I wanted there to be some steps mades toward emotional healing, for them and their parents as well!**

 **oz diva : You are absolutely right. There is no complete manual on how-to-mother 101. This is WAY before Dr. Spock, and I'm sure most people in this time didn't openly discuss the emotional repercussions of having children. **

**PelirrojaBiu : Thank you! More to come with the children down the road. **

**elizasky : Excellent remarks regarding Anne's lack of experience in parenting: she does, in fact, have experience in caregiving, and has had several mother figures, including Marilla, Miss Stacy, possibly Mrs Blythe and Mrs Barry to a certain extent (not necessarily all great mother figures to her, but present nonetheless). On a more basic level, Anne simply hasn't had a person to call "mother" in her life, and I think she might not be sure exactly what it entails. **

**As for their communication, you are correct again, it hasn't been stellar. After giving birth, perhaps Anne felt a bit of post partum depression - already a difficult concept today, I wonder how people might have dealt with it in Anne's time.**

 **I didn't mean for the hug in the previous chapter to be icky, though it does come off that way a bit, doesn't it? I thought of her here as being the provider of comfort, and perhaps not quite remembering how to do so, going about it a bit clumsily and hesitantly.**


	11. The way I am

"Gilbert, you stayed in Avonlea this past week. How was that?"

The man shrugged. "Fine." Barney scratched his pen across the notepad. "It was good."

Kenneth included Anne in his next question: "I take it you saw each other every day, then?"

Anne nodded curtly. "Yes." Barney's pen scratched on.

"Do you feel that you were able to make some kind of progress?"

Gilbert leaned back in his seat and stared at the wall. Anne contemplated a spot on the tapestry. Barney scratched furiously.

"Quite a bit," she said in a small voice. More scratching laced the icy silence that ensued.

Just as Kenneth was about to prod, Gilbert's voice exploded angrily, bouncing off the walls.

"It doesn't matter how hard I try, you keep punishing me! Every time I do something wrong, it's the same circus: I have to grovel, and beg, and it's still not enough for you! By the time you magnanimously decide to bestow your forgiveness upon me, I'll have offended you in three new ways, and we're back where we started. And the worst part of it is, they're mistakes! Stupid, unintentional mistakes, and if I could undo them, I would, but half the time I don't even know what might tick you off!"

He ended his tirade with a shout, his face red from exertion and emotion, chest heaving, nostrils flared. His pulse was banging so loudly in his temples, it drowned out the sounds of Barney's pen.

"Anne? Would you like to respond?" prompted Kenneth evenly.

She shook her head, genuinely baffled. "I have no idea what this is about."

"Oh, that's rich," Gilbert laughed humorlessly. "One silly comment in class, and it's five years of cold shoulder! Does that not ring a bell?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Anne asked, her shock at his rage slowly ceding the way to her rising annoyance.

"It has everything to do with anything about us! It's the very nature of our entire relationship!" He surprised himself by the boom of his own voice, and made a conscious effort to talk at a more acceptable volume. "I'm sorry, it's just... this - this situation, it's got me on edge. We came so close, and then..." He inhaled deeply through his nose. "I never meant to hurt you, Anne. I truly didn't. And I'm sorry. God, I'm _sorry_ , alright?"

He buried his face in his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. All the fight had drained out of him, and by the quiver of his shoulders, she could tell he was barely containing his tears. Her fingers itched to soothe his back, but the air was too thick between them.

"Gilbert, I'm hearing resentment and remorse," said Kenneth, ever the impassive commentator. "Anne, how does that make you feel?"

"Terrible." Her eyes were fixed Gilbert's hunched figure.

And then, something out of the ordinary occurred: a quiet cough sounded from the corner, and all three occupants of the room were startled into remembering the fourth as a human observer, rather than the source of noise that might have been made by a woodland critter.

They all three watched dumbly as Barney stepped up to the doctor, and leaned to whisper something in the his ear. Kenneth nodded in interest, and whispered back a more audible thanks. The eager puppy-eyed lad returned to his corner and resumed scribbling with more determination than before, if such a thing was even possible.

"Gilbert, let's go back to what you said earlier: _one silly comment in class, five years of cold_ shoulder. Is this a reference to your time at Redmond?" inquired the doctor.

"No. It was way before - when we first met, in Avonlea." He was sorry he ever brought up the sorry incident: now, they'd have to relive the whole darn thing, pick at old wounds and let them bleed out, and the whole thing would turn into another retrospective on how stupidly inconsiderate thirteen-year-old Gilbert had been.

 _Well, best get it over with_.

"When I first saw her, I wanted to get her attention. To talk to her, tease her, I don't know. When she wouldn't acknowledge me, I grew impatient. So, I pulled her hair and called her _carrots_. So angry she was, that she broke her slate over my head, and got in trouble for it."

It was a grossly abbreviated version of the event, but Gilbert saw no point in dragging this session out. "I tried to make amends, but she hated me, held on to her grudge against me. I tried to offer my sincere apologies repeatedly, both written and spoken; gifts, tokens of friendship; I was kind, helped her whenever I could, even saved her life, once! It took a real tragedy - the passing of a relative, and a sacrifice on my part, for her to come around. And even then, I never felt that I was standing on firm grounds with her."

"Good: this is good." Not the best word to qualify any of it, in Gilbert's opinion, but he didn't feel up to a rebuttal. "Anne, you seem surprised: I take it your point of view of the events varies somewhat?"

Anne had been listening with her mouth agape: she blinked and sat up, but didn't take her eyes from Gilbert. "I didn't know how to be any other way," she justified, her voice gravelly.

"Can you explain what you mean by that?" asked Kenneth.

She cleared her throat. "When I first arrived in Avonlea, I had nothing in terms of social knowledge. I had no clue how to act around the people there: I didn't know the rules of conduct. I'd never needed them before."

"By before, you mean the orphanage," stated Kenneth for clarification.

"Things were different there," Anne nodded. "Not so many rules to remember: we were taught to respect strength, because strength was power, and to be wary of those more powerful than ourselves."

Gilbert scoffed, which earned him the doctor's attention.

"It's a tired excuse," he spoke before Kenneth could grill him. "All her faults, anything negative, is blamed on the orphanage. We might have encouraged it, Marilla and I, and everyone around her - we might have even started it ourselves. But at some point, you have to be accountable for your own behavior."

Though the last part was addressed to Anne, he was still facing the wall.

"The orphanage _is_ my identity. I may not want to remember it, but it doesn't mean that it doesn't affect me anymore. The orphanage is where I first grew up: it shaped me, for better or for worse. Probably more of the latter. If you'd seen it, you'd know why I am the way I am."

Her tone was firm, but yielded neither anger, nor reproach. Gilbert looked up into her shining eyes: she'd been speaking directly to him.

As always, Kenneth intervened, unaware of their unspoken communication (or perhaps, _very_ aware), shattering the magic of the moment. "Anne, I'm hearing an invitation. Gilbert, how would you like to take a trip into Anne's past?"

* * *

 **The beginning of this chapter references one week of progress: the first day of which (Sunday) is actually chapter 10, "A Private Night Out". The rest of the week continues in the rated M story, "Intimate in Our Own Way". The first chapter, Monday, is already up, and Tuesday will follow shortly. I'm pretty new to composing Mature stories (though I love reading them), but I might add more scenes after the week is completed, pending on how much I struggle with writing smut!**

X

 **stillpink : Thanks! You're right, it's not exactly fluff. B** **ut re-reading the chapter, I thought: "No one cried, or puked, or got stabbed...how boring!" Still, a little reprieve from all the tears felt necessary.**

 **AnneFans** **: Thanks! The break from the hard stuff continues in "Intimate in Our Own Way". #shamelessplug**

 **PelirrojaBiu** **: My sentiments exactly, thank you!**

 **Lavinia Maxwell** **: Thanks! This chapter may seem grim, but I promise things won't always suck for Gilbert and Anne ;)**

 **Anne O' the Island** **: Thanks! You know it's bad when you've run out of synonyms for boo-hooing. I have nothing against fluff myself, but this was just about as rosy as my writing gets! :D**

 **As for Anne's sentiments of inadequacy, the tone is set in the previous instalments of the series: and yes, it is very different when it's your own children.**

 **elizasky** **: Thanks! A rewind in time was exactly what I was going for.**

 **oz diva** **: Thanks for catching that analogy! As you can see, everything is not roses, but I promise not to keep the dark cloud of doom over them forever, either.**

 **NotMrsRachelLynde** **: Thanks! They won't stay clumsy and awkward the entire time, but it felt like an appropriate start.**


	12. To blame and forgive

John stopped the buggy in front of the Blythe residence. He watched as Gilbert hopped down and started to unharness the tired brown mare.

"I'll take care of it. Need to clean her shoes."

Gilbert kept his head bent over his task. "I can do it."

John knew that he'd have to double check his work - there was no way the lad was focused enough right now. But all he said was: "Alright, son. See that you wash up in time for supper."

* * *

Sarah Blythe frowned when she heard only one set of footsteps enter the house. "Dear, is that you?" she called from the kitchen.

"Coming," his voice called back from the hallway. She hated how tired he sounded, the same exhaustion that came to haunt her husband whenever he thought of Gilbert. Speaking of which...

"Is he at Green Gables again? He promised to have supper with us tonight."

"He's out back with Majesty." John's body appeared in the kitchen. "We dropped Anne off on the way."

She heard the unspoken reproach loud and clear. Not the most vocal man by nature, John Blythe communicated mostly through his eyes and his stance. Over the years, Sarah had become fluent in his abstract language: she read the current reprimand on his face without difficulty.

 _Well, tough_ , she answered with a huff of her own. It frustrated her to no end that he chose to remain blind to the redheaded root of the problem. The legendary Blythe loyalty was indestructible, and right now it was preventing John from seeing the source of their boy's hurt.

Sarah pounded the dough on the counter: she'd have to deal with that later.

* * *

"So," began Sarah once food had been dished out. "Was the train ride from Moncton long?"

John looked at Gilbert.

Gilbert blew on a spoonful of beans. "It was fine. I'm used to it."

"You've been traveling so much, it's a wonder you haven't dropped," his mother couldn't help but cluck.

John looked at Sarah.

Sarah looked at her son.

"It's fine, muttered Gilbert.

"Well," Sarah carried on with a false air of insouciance. "Walter's birthday is coming up soon, will you be celebrating here, or in the Glen?"

Gilbert looked at his father.

John looked at Sarah.

"I'm not sure," answered Gilbert despondently, pushing a bit of bacon around with his spoon.

Sarah looked at John.

John looked back at her.

Gilbert didn't look up.

* * *

After the dishes were put away and the floor had been swept, Sarah found herself staring at a clean and empty kitchen thinking, _now what?_

She tried to find solace in the fact that her two men were both at home, and in good health. John had gone out to the stables to recheck Majesty's hooves, and Gilbert had retreated to his room. It ought to be enough, just to have them close by. After all they'd gone through, Sarah Blythe had learned to count her blessings.

Yet, the grain of loneliness blossomed inside her bosom like a tumor. Ever since her parents' passing (her father had gone just before her own wedding; her mother had only lived to meet Gilbert as an infant), Sarah had relied heavily on the love and affection of her husband and child. And nature had cruelly threatened to take them away from her, but Providence had mercifully allowed her to keep her small core of a family. John and Gilbert were healthy and well, and truth be told, she resented them a little.

It was a horrible admission from a mother and a wife, but it wasn't any less true. She was jealous of their symbiotic relationship, envious of the effortlessness of their male camaraderie.

Oh, they loved her, that she knew as a fact. But she wasn't quite on their level, didn't exactly belong in their tight bond. Yearning to be included was a lonely feeling, one that should have been assuaged by the gain of a daughter-in-law.

Maybe Sarah hadn't tried hard enough - perhaps she even resented _her_ , for earning John's affection so easily, and for making Gilbert open up so easily. Perhaps she could have been friendlier in general, extended a hand more often to the grown woman who'd clearly been out of her element in married life. There just was an aloofness, an egotistical penchant in her behavior that rubbed Sarah the wrong way.

She shook herself, and reached for the kettle to fill it with water. The fact remained that Gilbert wanted things to work, and it seemed that Anne was making efforts. And after all, _she_ was the mother of her grandsons. So, Sarah would make some tea, and start ironing things out, starting with her son.

* * *

Gilbert was lying on the made bed of his childhood room, staring up at the ceiling as he meditated on his life so far.

It seemed all the great chapters of his life were marked by struggle. Nothing had ever been handed over to him without an uphill battle. As a result, he had needed to display a certain grit that wasn't always asked of his peers: he'd had to demonstrate his determination and strength of character just to bring himself up to their level.

His efforts hadn't been for naught: in the end, he'd gone to school with his hard earned teaching wages and scholarships; he'd surpassed his entire class, scored the prestigious Cooper prize; he'd won the girl of his dreams' favor; he had made his name a somewhat prominent one in his area of work.

However, people tended to forget that all the success and recognition had come at the price of much sweat and tears, and this aggravated him more than anything.

Amidst all the reminiscing, one memory kept circling back: something his Uncle Dave had said on Christmas Eve, many years ago. Gilbert had come home from Redmond for the very first time, and (though he'd never admit it) was basking in the pride and praise over him his parents had been dishing out generously. He couldn't recall the context, what turn the discussion had taken after dessert, but he remembered the exact inflection of his great uncle's condescension as he'd proclaimed: "Not that you'd know: you've had an easy life, Gilbert. You just wait and see."

Respectful reverence towards his elders (drilled into him by his parents from a young age) made Gilbert hold his tongue. He did his best to internalize his outrage, but every cell in his body vibrated with the injustice in those harsh words. How _could_ the man, a very dear relative he'd admired so, imply that Gilbert's life had been easy? University classes were brutal, _and_ he'd just spent the past semester elbowing his way into the academic and social elite circles, being snobbed at every corner for lacking of an appropriate background. Nothing about Redmond was easy.

It hurt even more that the comment had come from someone who knew all about his years in Alberta. What was so easy about watching his father skirt death before Gilbert himself was even old enough to shave? And being separated from his mother as a young boy for three whole years, was that considered an easy life?

Gilbert had turned to his mother, expecting her to chime in with her typical protective defence: she freshened Aunt Katherine's tea with a beatific smile. Hadn't she heard the slight? He looked over at his father, who merely puffed at his pipe, without a care in the world. Just like that, Christmas was ruined, and Uncle Dave carried on insouciantly, unaware that his only nephew on John's side wouldn't meet his eye for the rest of his visit.

Looking back now, Gilbert could see how naive he'd been. Uncle Dave had known; maybe his parents hadn't, but Anne certainly did. He could see clearly now that his life _had_ been quite easy.

A soft knock made him start. "Yes?" he called.

The door opened, and his mother came in, carrying a laden tea tray. "I thought we could have a little dessert up here."

Gilbert sat up and cleared his nightstand for her to set down the tray. She pulled up the chair from against the wall and poured the tea, waiting for Gilbert to take a bite of the walnut tart before speaking.

"Are you ready to talk about what happened in New Brunswick, at the orphanage?"

The honeyed nuts lodged in Gilbert's throat. He swallowed repetitively to force them down. "It was terrible," he said plainly. She said nothing, so he continued. "You've never seen anything like it, Ma. The children - they have nothing. It's an embarrassment, the way these places are run."

"I'm sure the city is doing its best to care for them." Her patience irritated him.

"Ma, do you know what else is in Moncton? The headquarters of the Intercolonial Railway of Canada. Those kids, when they come of age, the ones who don't get sold to factories, they slave away on the tracks. And that's the lucky ones, because they _survived_ , and even if it bears too much similarity to slavery, they have legitimate jobs. The others - the girls - you can't imagine what they're made to do, in the streets, in houses...Lord knows where else."

"Sweetheart, they don't know any better," she tried to explain tenderly.

"Well, whose fault is that? It's not just that we don't educate them: we barely even feed them. We starve them, and then punish them for needing food. It's criminal!"

"Now, Gilbert," her voice became firm for a while: "I agree that perhaps the system may be a bit...flawed, but you cannot assume responsibility for the poor management of an institution."

"Why on Earth not? It's my fault as much as anyone else's. It's more of my fault, actually, for living with someone who knows _firsthand_ how _corrupt_ such establishments are, and for _choosing to ignore it!_ "

She laid a calming hand on his forearm. "I understand that you're upset, and it's your right to feel that way," her quiet voice contrasted with his shouting. "But running around, pointing fingers isn't going to solve anything."

His shoulders slumped over in defeat. "I know. You're right. I'm sorry."

Her lips gave a small, painful quirk. "So, what are we going to do?"

Gilbert stared at his mother in surprise. Had she just said... _we?_

"I need to make things right with Anne. I know it seems that she's in the wrong, and she admits that what she did _was_ wrong - but I'm to blame for this, too. You might not approve of her, but if you could see her - I mean, _really_ see her the way I do, the way Dad does, the way-"

He just barely kept it from slipping out, though his lips had already shaped the first consonant: he might as well have yelled the name. Her eyes shone darkly, but he carried on. "I think you would come to see that she is an astoundingly good person, even though she's not quite conventional. There's a lot of things she missed growing up, her past is... she was never properly loved. Mama, she needs to be loved."

 _She already has you_ , the petty side of Sarah Blythe itched to point out. _Your father was quick to take her side as well. What do you need me for?_

But there was no reward in such thoughts: only bitterness and misery. Plus, he'd called her 'Mama' - the endearing epithet used only in dire circumstances to make her cave in to something big, or when he was desperate. The tears glossing over his eyes indicated that it was probably both.

"Alright. I'll try."

He grabbed her free hand and squeezed it, and she offered him a watery smile.

There was nothing she wouldn't do for her boy.

* * *

 **oz diva** **: I am not a shrink, though I am very amused at how much indignation Kenneth has been causing! I was just trying for a very intelligent person, and repressed all his empathy. That is why his only interjections are neutral observations.**

 **AnneFans** **: So true! LMM's AoGG is pretty much narrated through Anne's eyes.**

 **Anne O' the Island** **: I've been wanting to show Barney's notes for some time. Still looking for an organic way to bring them up, and then a way to transcribe the scribbles with a computer keyboard. And call-me-Kenneth is part caricature of a shrink, part...my dad. Who is not a shrink, but an extremely booksmart and very kind human being, who has trouble using both his intellectual and empathic traits simultaneously. :P**

 **stillpink** **: Make some room on that soapbox for me! Anne definitely needs an epiphany, not only for her attitude towards Gilbert, but the way she acts towards others in general.**

 **OriginalMcFishie** **: Agreed! Anne's treatment of Gilbert is rather like abuse at times.**

 **Lavinia Maxwell** **: Hope this lived up to the expectation!**

 **NotMrsRachelLynde** **: Thank you! We're working towards some understanding, and hopefully some healing, very slowly.**

 **elizasky** **: Things are still pretty rosy in M-rated land for now! Hopefully I can get the timeline right here :)**

 **guest : Thanks for joining the series! I agree with you, Jonathan Crombie was the perfect actor for Gilbert. I haven't seen him in much else, but I found him to be excellent in the Sullivan movies, he really embodied all the facets of Gilbert's personality beautifully. His passing away is very sad. **


	13. To hold and cherish

Marilla closed her evening prayer and stood up with a grimace. Sore knees, smarting back - the years had taken their toll on her. She crawled into bed, sighing as she pulled the sheets over herself. Her eyelids became heavy, and she tried to let her mind shut down, but something kept her from dozing off. An instinct she'd developed, kept on when there were children about the house: someone was going to ask for her, soon, most likely Walter spooked by a nightmare (Jem was too big to have nighttime caprices).

Sure enough, the door creaked open, but the figure that crept in was much taller than Walter: Marilla's weakened eyesight was doubly impaired in the dark, but she recognized the footsteps approaching her bed straight away.

"Anne?"

"Can I stay with you tonight?"

Marilla's heart ripped at the meekness of her voice. She knew it wasn't proper for a grown and married woman... but, to tell the truth, there was no way she could deny Anne any comfort, when she was so obviously hurting. The routine was well-practiced: the old woman shuffled to the side, waited for the tall, lanky figure to settle down next to her, and tugged the quilts over both of them. It was a ritual that took place every now and then, originating from the night of Matthew's passing.

Marilla wasn't a mother. She believed in calling things as they were: in her eyes, deluding oneself was the pentacle of weakness. She hadn't given birth, Anne hadn't come from her womb: therefore, the hand that clutched her sleeve was not her daughter's.

How, then, could she explain the pain that ate her from the inside whenever Anne cried? Why was it that she felt the girl's joys and sorrows as her own? Why was it that since the moment she'd first taken the little redhead ragamuffin into her home, Marilla had been seized with the need to protect her from all the harms and hurts in the world?

Marilla sighed and embraced the thin figure. If it was unnatural to feel this way, then she'd have a nice, long conversation with her maker when the day come. For now, she would proudly hold her daughter close.

* * *

In the light of day, Marilla was seeing things more clearly. She'd had some time to process the events of the previous evening: Anne being dropped off by John, the way she'd kept on a brave face during supper for the boys, breaking only after they'd been safely tucked into bed.

Marilla had been expecting those tears: she hadn't wanted Anne to return to the orphanage at all, but somehow, that stubborn woman had gotten it inside her head that it was crucial. For all the good that had done: Gilbert had stayed away, cowering at home, and Marilla had picked up the pieces of a broken little girl in a grown woman's body.

Upset as she'd been then, Marilla could now appreciate how difficult this might have been on Gilbert as well. Heaven knew she and Matthew had both struggled with the little insight they had on Anne's life before coming to Avonlea. So, she'd taken matters in her own hands, and had made an early morning call: since then, her optimism had kept on climbing, threatening to override her practicality.

"There you are," she greeted briskly, looking up from the slice of bread she was buttering as Anne entered the kitchen.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to sleep in so late." The elegant woman leaned to kiss the top of Jem's firey head, then paused to let Walter give her a long cuddle before returning to his breakfast.

"Figured you needed the rest." Marilla's tone came out admirably dry as she poured her some tea.

"I really did." Anne accepted the cup with a brave smile. _Don't despair,_ Marilla wanted to say. _Everything will be alright, you'll see. I'm here for you, I'm here with you._

As always, such fanciful phrases got stuck in Marilla's throat. "Eat your porridge while it's hot," she said instead, wishing not for the first time that tenderness wasn't so hard for her to express.

A sharp knock at the door resounded, making all four occupants of the table look up. Jem was the first to hop off his chair, ignoring both adults' protests as he raced to the door. "Dad!" his happy cry resounded, making Anne start. Marilla feigned an ignorant shrug, and had to hide her knowing grin in her teacup.

* * *

Anne watched as Gilbert bent to embrace their son. In that moment, she knew that regardless of all the turmoil, she loved him dearly, and would always love him, no matter what. They might be ill-matched, inharmonious, but no one would ever hold her favor like he did.

Gilbert saw her and stood up, sending the boy on his merry way. "These are for you," he said, holding out a nosegay. Anne could tell what path he'd taken by the blossoms: purple thistles that grew in front of his parents' house, pink and white clover from the edge of the road, the little yellow ones (for which no one had a name) on the shortcut through the Barry's property.

She looked up from the flowers to her husband: he stood sheepishly before her, hat in hand. "It's early, I know: I just wanted to see you."

"That's alright," Anne said, feeling as uncertain as he surely did.

"I'm sorry I didn't stay last night."

"Gilbert, I understand."

He could tell through his own contrition that she really did: her face showed no sign of rancor. Gathering up his courage, he spoke through the knot in his throat:

 _"I've come up to ask you to go for one of our old-time rambles through_ springtime _woods and_ _'over hills where spices grow' this_ morning _."*_

"Oh?" Anne brought the bouquet to her nose, her eyes twinkling with the hint of a smile.

Gilbert affected a casual air. _"Suppose we visit Hester Gray's garden."*_

Anne bit her lip hesitantly, and he braced himself for rejection.

"Let me get my coat."

* * *

 ***AotI, _Love Takes up the Glass of Time_**

 **Elizasky** **: Thank you so much for your criticism! Hopefully, the tone of this chapter will soothe the sting of the previous one.**

 **AnneFans** **: Mrs. Blythe is one of the most underwritten characters of the book, so we get to shape her however we please in the fanfiction world! I suppose in this version that Sarah Blythe wants to love her daughter-in-law, but has a lot of difficulties understanding Anne (she wouldn't be the first). There is also a possibility that she doesn't quite know how to "share" Gilbert. I hadn't thought of Mary Maria, but that's an interesting point!**

 **OriginalMcFishie** **: I wanted to share those eye-opening revelations in this chapter, but first I thought a little healing might be in order. A little reprieve from all the drama!**

 **NotMrsRachelLynde** **: You're very right! I think Mrs. Blythe might also feel a bit lonely, perhaps rejected at times? She has a small family, and probably feels overlooked or underappreciated at times.  
**


	14. Garden of promises

Hester Gray's garden was a terrestrial paradise.

The last of the spring flowers poked obstinately through the ground, dots of vivid yellow, deep pink and royal purple amidst the tall grass. Little white petals poked timidly from their buds on the cherry trees, permeating the air with a delicate fragrance. The rosebushes remained dark green and brown for now, little heads stubbornly shut against the cool April breeze.

While Anne fancied the garden still to be haunted by its namesake, Gilbert saw the ghosts of their own past selves: the copper haired girl sitting in the grass, eyes shining green as she slapped the arm of the young lad reclining next to her who munched on an apple, teasing her between lazy bites. They would have been laughing over their long passed feuds, or weaving dreams of continued studies in a distant future.

Looking back, he was surprised not to feel the least bit envious of _that_ Gilbert. Except perhaps for his limber constitution, he reflected with a grimace as he shifted forward a bit. Sitting on a thin quilt spread out on the ground was not as fun at his current age as it had been then. But present-time Gilbert, while less supple, had acquired valuable wisdom. His naivete had been traded in for a deeper understanding of the world, and a newfound humility had replaced the cocky arrogance which had earned him many indulgent smiles and softened reprimands in the past.

No, Gilbert didn't envy that boy. He wasn't even sure he liked him all that much - especially not after what he'd seen yesterday.

Anne had tried to explain life at the orphanage several times over the years: Gilbert, in all his arrogant superiority, had credited her recollections to the memories of a confused child, embellished by her boundless imagination.

Their visit at the orphanage had been a slap of reality to his face. She hadn't been exaggerating - in fact, she'd rather understated the crassness.

 _First, there was the smell - the stench of chemical cleaning agents, with undertones of boiled cabbage and waste. The mid-aged matron had shown them around the facilities (bleak and cramped), proudly stating that the children earned their stay by keeping them tidy. "Ain't no lazy scum 'round here, not under my care!" she'd boasted, setting Gilbert's teeth on edge._

 _After their tour, a handful of children had been summoned inside from the penitentiary that was the fenced court. They stood in two rows: six boys in one, seven girls in the other, all over the age of ten. "Can't have'em too young, not when you got y'own to mind. I know you said one, but you might take two - a boy's good for the farm, but a girl's better for babies. How many did you say you had? You might need two girls..."_

 _Gilbert ignored the matron's nasally voice, repulsed by the fact that she was selling these teenagers as easily as if they were pigs at the market. He'd focused on the children instead: filthy faces, empty eyes, clothes that had more holes than pockets._

 _All things considered, Anne was handling herself rather well. She mostly listened and nodded, neither friendly nor rude with the matron, answering the occasional question when he could not find his voice._

 _"We'll need some time to think about it," said Anne politely as they got ready to go._

 _If the matron was disappointed that they weren't leaving with an armful of orphans, it didn't show. "You do that. Come back whenever, don't need no appointment."_

 _They'd lingered outside the building, staring through the fence at the orphans who hadn't been summoned: young age and blatant injuries had prevented them from making the cut that day. Some halfheartedly kicked an empty tin around, but most wandered around lethargically, resigned the bad hand they'd been dealt. A fight broke out among the younger prisoners: there was screaming, punching, kicking, biting - viciousness like he'd never seen in a child._

Gilbert plucked a blade of grass from the ground and twirled it in his hands. It embarrassed him to remember how he'd stormed off like an angry bull, with little regard to the woman trailing after him.

 _"It's an outrage!" he'd fumed, stalking down the streets of Moncton, turning around the huge factory conveniently placed near its source of underaged workers. The acrid, polluted air did nothing to improve his humor. "Where's the town hall? Someone needs to be told about this: the mayor-"_

 _"We haven't the time," called Anne from behind him, trotting to catch up with his furious pace. "Our train leaves in less than an hour. Besides, I'm sure the mayor already knows."_

 _"Of course he doesn't," he'd spat viciously. "Do you honestly believe that a mayor would let this- this travesty - in his own city?"_

 _"Politicians have agendas. Moncton is an industrial town."_

 _"What are you saying?" his voice boomed down the street._

But she'd simply shaken her head. No clarification was necessary, anyhow - he had seen the ugly truth on the grimy hands and faces, heard it in the hacking coughs, the kind usually accrued over decades of habitual smoking.

Gilbert stretched out his legs and breathed in deeply, taking in their lush surroundings. This garden was their palace: every tree was a column that held up the sky, the ground carpeted in rich, green grass. He imagined an eleven year old orphan coming to the Island, exploring Avonlea, discovering goldmines...

"I'm sorry we never adopted."

Anne turned to him, startled by the statement that came out of nowhere. He went on: "You mentioned it in passing several times, before we got married. I never thought much of it - wasn't too keen on it, to be perfectly honest. Didn't see anything wrong with having children of our own - didn't stop to think about how it had been for you, if you'd never gotten out of there."

"But I have, Gil, and I've had a charmed life ever since-"

"And what of adoption?" he pressed on, self derision etched on his face. "I robbed you of that choice on our wedding night."

" _Excuse_ me," she seethed in what he recognized as a dangerous tone. "I'd like to think I was a rather willing participant. I knew what might come of it. Just because I'd preferred the idea of adoption, didn't mean I wasn't entirely opposed to the notion of having children by... er, the biological way."

He couldn't prevent a small grin, but it was short lived. "I'll never forgive myself for hurting you."

"But you must," Anne pleaded now. "You can't let a... a _misunderstanding_ dictate our future forever."

"What about you?" he asked. "Have you forgiven me?"

"Yes, of course!"

"Really, Anne? Because so far, you haven't been able to trust me to... _bed_ you. Doesn't feel like forgiveness," he pointed out. "For this to work, you'll have to trust me again."

Had she not forgiven him? Was fear the only obstacle left, or had she nursed a grudge so deep, it lingered unspoken between them? She couldn't be certain now.

"We'll need to be open and honest with each other," she reasoned carefully.

Gilbert nodded. "I suppose we'd need to talk about certain things, regardless of how uncomfortable it makes us. And, as you said, we'd have to let go of our mistakes: leave them in the past."

"Even the really big ones?" she asked skeptically, but with an underlying sense of hope.

"Even those," he confirmed with the hint of a grin.

Anne bowed her head. After a moment of silence, she looked up at him from under coppery lashes. "I think I'm ready."

Gilbert's heart skipped a beat. "You- what?"

"But first, we are going to have a long talk."

"Aren't we talking now?" he recovered cheekily, earning himself a _thwack_ on the arm.

"Properly. Indoors, preferably on chairs."

"Thank goodness for that - I'm not fit for this kind of sitting anymore."

"Oh dear, are you sore?" she asked with an air of concern. "I was going to ask you to kiss me while we were out here alone, with no one to find us for hours-"

His lips were on hers before she could finish the sentence. Anne threw her arms around his neck, calling herself all the names in the book for ever letting go in the first place, and swore to make things right before losing herself in his embrace.

* * *

 **The end? Not quite! There are still some loose ends to wrap up, but first, I need to fill in the gap left from that sexy week. I aim to push out three or four more chapters of Intimate in Our Own Way before resuming this story (in what I think might be a chapter or two, perhaps an epilogue of sorts). In the meanwhile, my other AU "Haunt Me on the New Year" continues. Thank you SO MUCH for reading and reviewing!**

 **AnneNGil** ** & Lavinia Maxwell: Hope the garden feels accurate! It's my first time writing about it...**

 **oz diva : Point taken. I still think Marilla would get to her knees until it's absolutely impossible for her to get up - for me, she shows very little self indulgence. This chapter might have answered some of your questions, the following ones might enlighten further ;)**

 **elizasky : Marilla was a real challenge to write - I adore her in canon, and hate to borrow her from LMM. I did my best to keep her as untouched as possible, even in the drastic changes of this AU. **

**Anne O' the Island** **: I know, I know, but I love purple thistles! And if you use them in a short stemmed bouquet, the thorns are avoidable :)**

 **NotMrsRachelLynde** **: Thanks, I figured that Marilla finally needed some face time! I adore her, but hate portraying her, as I feel she's LMM's best written character.**

 **TooTiredtoReadEnough** **: I guess both mothers are feeling protective - Mrs Blythe might feel that Anne brings Gilbert more pain than joy, while Marilla wants to give Anne whatever she needs (in this case, Gilbert).**


	15. The future ahead

"I'm so sorry, Gilbert. I thought I was ready, but I'm not."

Gilbert clenched his jaw, but nodded. He wasn't all that surprised. "I know."

"I wish I could, I really do," she went on. "But the memories, there..."

"I know."

"It's just... it feels like home, here-"

"Anne. I _know_ ," he interrupted her hurried explanation. He sat up from the pile of hay and buttoned his trousers. "I rushed you out of here too soon. This was your first real home, your safe place, and I yanked you away from it."

"You did no such thing," she countered, brushing out her skirts. "I came gladly and willingly."

"I should have known it was too early. I was so eager to start our life together, I didn't stop to consider any other aspect of your own life."

"Stop deciding what I was or wasn't ready for," reminded Anne without heat.

"Sorry." He took her fingers in his and placed an apologetic kiss on the back of her hand.

"As long as we're being honest..." she frowned down at her boots. "...I hate that house."

Gilbert blinked. "Ingleside? You told me you loved it."

"When we first got it, yes. I loved the structure, and the place was ideal. But the inside, Gil...it's horrendous."

"Then why did you decorate it so?" he asked, stunned.

"That's on you, I'm afraid."

He frowned. "I don't understand."

She looked straight at him. "You countered me on every move: how could we ever expect our guests to sit on such an old divan? Your colleagues would never take us seriously if we appear to be living on hand-me-downs from last century. You had a certain stature, that came with an income, and we were supposed to show it off in every single room."

Gilbert hung his head. "You make me sound superficial."

"You're not superficial." She caressed his cheek. "Just someone who cares about appearances a bit much. And coming from me, that's really saying something."

Her grin elicited a small chuckle from him. "Alright. Not Ingleside, then." He pulled her closer until she was leaning against his chest. "What about Avonlea?"

"What about Avonlea?" echoed Anne. "I suppose we'll visit as much as possible."

"No, I mean - to live." He shrugged. "We like it here, don't we?"

Anne smiled dreamily. "It's home."

"Our parents could make up for lost time with the boys. They've already missed out on so much..."

"Not to mention, they'll get to grow up with their Wright cousins." Anne shook herself. "It's not practical, Gil. What will you do about work?"

He smiled confidently and leaned back. "You know I've been wanting to open my own practice for a while, now."

"But you always said it would be hard to treat the people who raised you and grew up with you."

"I have the credentials, now," he said with his signature cockiness. "I think I'll be able to earn their trust. Plus, Mrs. Lynde is all the way in White Sands - she would have been the worst of my worries."

"I wouldn't put it past her to come all the way to see you," teased Anne, then her seriousness returned. "All the births, deaths... wouldn't it be awfully personal, Gil?"

"It's always personal," he replied. "It doesn't matter if it's a childhood friend or a perfect stranger - from the moment life is trusted into your hands, they might as well be your dearest family member."

Anne lifted her head from his shoulder to look into his eyes. "That's the most personal thing I've ever heard you say about your work."

His lips twisted into a wry smile. "I'm learning. Open communication, and all that."

"Hmm."

Sensing that her breathing was evening out, Gilbert pinched her side. "Hey, you're not falling asleep on me, are you?"

"You can't blame a girl for daydreaming," she said with an ethereal sigh. "All this honesty and intimacy... I'm imagining our boys growing up here... Oh, Gil, are you certain you wouldn't miss the Glen? If Susan has been keeping the house while we're gone, it's probably in perfect condition."

As sour as the name tasted in Anne's mouth, she knew she owed a great deal to the woman who'd minded her sons when she herself could not.

She felt Gilbert's breath catch, but not in the excited way that had lead to losing her drawers somewhere in the barn among the hay. There was nothing passionate about the tension turning his every muscle to steel. "Darling?" she soothed a hand over a torso which could have been carved from stone.

"Anne - there's something I need to tell you." He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid you're not going to like this."

* * *

"Run it by me one more time." Though she was no longer crying, the evidence of a thousand tears still clogged her throat.

"Anne," begged Gilbert, nearing his wits' end. "Please, darling, don't keep doing this to yourself-"

"Once more, Gilbert," she rasped. He had stopped being 'Gil' about an hour ago, when he'd opened a whole new box of troubles.

"It's really not helping-"

"Fine, then I'll do it, then: after I left, Susan needed help around the house. So _she_ brings up the notion of hiring more help, and suggests bringing in her young, beautiful, unattached niece."

"I've told you already, she didn't straight out advertise that her niece was young, or - either of those things. Only that she needed help, and she could provide it."

"Yet, this is something you could have easily deduced with a minimum of reasoning," she pointed out.

"I suppose I could have." _But I hadn't,_ he argued silently.

"In comes... _Celeste_." The name taste bitter in Anne's mouth. "She makes herself at home, with the boys, and sets her eyes on you."

This information hadn't come directly from Gilbert. She had heard several accounts: from Diana's carefully censored renditions, to Jem's casual anecdotes, Anne had somehow gotten the impression that the girl had been nothing more than a passing figure - one more person to help clear up the damage Anne had caused in her departure. With the new details brought to light, she could see how Celeste's role might have been downplayed.

"She was never meant as a replacement for you." Gilbert dragged a hand exasperatedly through his disheveled brown curls. "We needed an extra set of hands: that's all."

"Not in Susan's eyes!" Anne's eyes blazed in outrage. "She had much more in mind than a pair of hands!"

"But not to me!" Gilbert cried out in frustration.

Anne trained her stormy gaze on his face. "If you weren't interested, why did you let her stay after Diana took in the children?"

He blew out a puff of air. "Because _,_ she needed the work, to help her family. And as soon as I found out that she had other...er, unreasonable designs, I sent her away. On the spot." _Please, believe me,_ he implored silently with his eyes.

"And you discovered these 'unreasonable designs' over a shared buggy ride," she said with an arched eyebrow.

"Yes, Anne, YES! Alright? I was oblivious, and too trusting. Diana already gave me a piece of her mind for being dense. I _know._ " He stood and began to pace. "Anyhow, you were gone. What was I supposed to think? And to find out that you were travelling around the country with Garrison... well, I don't like it either."

"It wasn't like that with Jack. I've told you before," reminded Anne. "Never once did he touch me. He was helping me back to you. I saw him as a friend, nothing more."

"And I saw nothing at all in Celeste!"

Anne sighed and buried her face in her hands. "Why is it that every time we start rebuilding trust, someone must come and try to destroy it?"

"But they haven't succeeded, have they?" asked Gilbert, a tinge of panic in his tone.

"No," she sighed dejectedly. "I suppose they haven't. It's just... I wish I hadn't ruined everything. Why couldn't I learn to be simply be content with what I had?"

"Hey! We'll have none of that." He stopped in front of her and pried her hands from her face. "You were unhappy, and I didn't do a thing about it. Remember what Kenneth said: it took your drastic actions to wake us both up. What you did hurt us in the short term, but it ultimately saved us, too."

"I still wish I could have spared you and the boys the pain," she said regretfully, squeezing his fingers.

"And we would be stuck in a sour relationship, perhaps drifted even further apart. "What image would our sons have of love, then? Two adults who can barely tolerate each other's presence, never in the same room unless absolutely necessary? They'll benefit from this as much as we will."

"I'm still sorry."

"And I still say it was worth it."

Anne looked up at him then, with nothing in her eyes but love. "Can we set aside our troubles for now, and continue this discussion at a later time?"

"There's nothing left of the subject to hash out, as far as I'm concerned," he said, pulling her up to her feet. "But we can talk about it anytime."

"Good. I don't know about you, but I could use a change of pace. I want to do something that will leave us both feeling good and refreshed."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow at her. "Again? Here?"

"You goose!" she swatted his arm. You probably couldn't even... after all the crying, and the accusations..."

"Oh, I'm sure I could manage," he bragged throatily.

"Gil! It's really not what I had in mind."

"Mmm, but it's such a good plan," he muttered between kisses.

Anne wrenched her face from his, laughing. "Stop! I was thinking of taking the boys for a walk. It's such a nice day, and - Gil, I mean it, stop!"

He stopped kissing her neck and pouted. "Do we have to? Right this moment?"

"Yes. While there's some sunlight left. We can pick this up tonight, after supper," she stated firmly, with a twinkle in her eyes.

Gilbert grinned wolfishly at her. "You better eat quickly tonight, then."


	16. Real Mother

**Special thanks to MrsVonTrapp and elizasky, who've contributed fresh ideas to this chapter, and put up with my looooong rambling PMs about nothing.**

* * *

Standing before Ingleside, Anne felt as though she'd gone back in time. Nothing had changed in her absence: the house looked exactly as she'd left it. Every tree, every stone was in its rightful place. Even the rosebushes were kept as carefully pruned as when she had done it herself.

What had she expected to find, crumbling ruins? Missing shingles, paint peeling from the walls? She shook her head at her own stupidity. Though it felt like a lifetime ago, it really hadn't been that long since she'd fled.

She hesitated upon reaching the door. Must she now knock, or did she still have the right to let herself in? Unable to decide on one, she did both.

"Mrs. Doctor, is that you?" the voice she'd dreaded rang from the kitchen.

"Hello, Susan," she called back, shutting the door behind her. The whistle of a kettle suggested that tea was being prepared. Anne thought remotely that she could use a bracing cup. She hung her hat on a hook next to the lone brown shawl on the coat rack.

"I hope your journey was pleasant," said Susan coolly, stepping out of her kitchen, twisting a dishcloth in her hands. She couldn't possibly have meant it as an innocent statement. Anne took a deep breath and struggled to maintain her composure: she'd so hoped to have an easy exchange without sparring.

"The weather was ideal." Horribly banal and irrelevant, but the only neutral response that came to her on the spot. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

"You're welcome to come to your own house, I'm sure," replied Susan. Again, it could have passed as inviting, were Anne not listening for disapproval: she felt as thought there was indeed a hint of snark under the veneer of dutiful servitude. "Shall I pour tea in the sitting room?"

Anne would have preferred never to set foot in the stuffy room again. "Let's take it in the kitchen," she suggested.

Susan visibly bristled: it had always been _her_ domain, and Anne wondered for a moment if she would contradict herself and deny the mistress of the house access to the kitchen. After a beat of silence, she inclined her head ever so slightly with a quiet "if you please."

The warmest corner of the house was kept as stocked and functional as when five people had lived and eaten there. The window was propped open to let out the heat generated by the oven: Susan snatched the tray of cooling gingersnaps from the sill, and quickly plopped the darkened treats onto a serving platter. Anne pulled out a chair, surprised to find a sewing basket on the seat.

"I'll get that!" Susan swooped in beside her and whisked the basket away. Anne ducked out of the way, and decided to fetch the good china from the cabinet. The inherited antique set was seldom used, as it only came out for the most important visitors. However, she needed a booster today: Anne had recently found a formidable ally in Sarah Blythe, and was hoping that her fine white cups with golden rims would help her find the courage she sorely needed.

A ruffled Susan returned to the kitchen and brought out the sugar and lemon while Anne poured the tea. They sat at the table, shooting sideways glances at each other's elbows, with no sound other than the clinking of Susan's spoon against the porcelain, and the crunch of Anne's first bite into a gingersnap.

"Thank you for agreeing to a meeting," she said after washing down the crumbly treat with a sip of tea.

"It is a rather long way to come for a chat," commented Susan. "I can't imagine what matter was so pressing, it couldn't be said in a letter."

It was the cool reproach that showed Anne how foolishly naive she'd been, in hoping for a friendly resolution. There was too much hostility on one side, and too much thirst for approval on the other.

"I wanted to tell you in person that we've found a house in Avonlea."

Susan sat up straighter, as if bracing herself. "Do you mean to move permanently?"

"We do." Anne thumbed the rippled porcelain pattern. "The house won't be available until the end of summer: in the meanwhile, there are some affairs to be sorted out."

Susan gazed unseeingly at her teacup. Unable to speak, she nodded for Anne to continue.

"This house will be put up for sale, naturally - but not before you've found a situation. And that is what I wanted to see you about."

 _This_ was what it had come down to? Susan had lived the ten best years of her life in this house. Ten years of happiness, the likes of which she'd never known before - the Doctor's mistress would wrench that from her so cruelly? She would not cry - not in front of _her_ , or anyone. "Alright."

"The boys miss you terribly. They want you back. Gilbert- _we_ would like for you to consider moving to Avonlea. There are some conditions, however."

Susan's expression hardened defiantly, but nothing could quite extinguish the light of hope in her eyes.

"You would be staying at Green Gables. Marilla could use someone to stay with her when we move out, and she would gladly give you a room. We would be neighbors, and see each other every day."

It was difficult for Anne to go on, but she knew now was the moment to be assertive: as a mother, as a wife, for her men.

"We're learning to function as a family again - that's why we chose a fresh start, just the four of us in our new home. We will be well surrounded: between Marilla, Gilbert's parents and the Wrights, we will continue to receive the love and support that we need. It would please everyone - Jem, especially - to include you in our extended family, as we did here. But before you can decide whether or not to join us, I need to know that you will never hurt us again."

An indignant Susan Baker found her voice. "I will not sit by and let you slander me with your accusations! I've loved those dear children more than you ever could. I would never abandon them... I would never harm a hair on their beautiful innocent heads! How dare you come into my house-"

She froze then, like a child caught swearing. Anne raised an eyebrow, but decided to let the slip of the tongue go. It was the least of their worries.

"But you did," she said calmly. "By undermining me in front of my sons and my husband constantly, you've created an unfair situation. If you think vilifying me won't hurt them, you're sorely mistaken. I might not be perfect, but I am their mother, and the only one they will ever have. I know you don't approve of - well, anything regarding me. This being said, it is not up to you to replace me, no matter how suitable you might find yourself - or anyone else."

Ah! There it was: the speck of guilt, barely visible but present nonetheless in the slight droop of the woman's dark eyes. It brought Anne no joy to witness it, though she did feel an iota of self-righteous satisfaction. Focusing on her mission, she drove her point home.

"The only ones who can make that decision are Gilbert and myself. As their Godmother, Mrs. Wright will take over, should anything...unfortunate...happen to me, or to us both. I want it to be clear that, should you choose to be a part of our daily lives, it will be as a friend and neighbor."

Her tone was final and firm enough that she needn't say it: _"_ a _nd nothing more"_ rang loud and clear in the air. The two women faced each other, resolve against iron eyes, defense against pursed lips, strength against rigid spine.

Anne had done her part. "You've got time to think it over," she said, standing up. "We won't sell the house until you've found another situation. Marilla's offer stands until you've informed us of your choice."

With that, she let herself out, leaving a bewildered Susan behind.

* * *

 _A wail drifted from the nursery. Anne groaned: she'd just put the baby down for his nap not ten minutes ago. Gilbert had checked on him again in the morning before leaving for work, and insisted that he was healthy as could be._

 _Anne wouldn't believe him. If there was nothing wrong with Jem, why would he sob himself sick, howling for hours on end until he was purple in the face?_

 _Leaning over the crib, she peered at her son. He'd survived so far, as improbable as it seemed: eyes screwed tightly shut, his head clammy and red all over, little fists bunched up as he punched the air, bawling inconsolably._

 _Picking him up without dropping him was a challenge, so vehemently he kicked, surprisingly strong for an infant of his age. One of his chubby little feet connected with her tender breast, eliciting a gasp of pain. She didn't allow herself to dwell on it, holding him against her chest: even then, he refused to be cradled, arching his back as far as it would go, batting the air feebly with his uncoordinated arms. His finger narrowly missed her left eye as his shrieks grew louder still. Anne tried to shift him around, only to have his weight suddenly lift from her arms._

 _"There now, I've got you, darling babe. Susan's got you," muttered the older woman comfortingly, efficiently extricating him from Anne's clumsy grip. The baby calmed almost instantly, his cries gradually subsiding into forlorn snuffles._

 _"That's a good boy, yes it is," murmured Susan with a fond look at the child. Anne wondered which was worse: her inability to calm her own child, being completely powerless in that situation, or her relief that he hadn't needed to feed again, sparing her aching teats a while longer._

 _The answer was neither: her failure to be a real mother was by far the worst of all._

* * *

Idleness was a novelty for Susan. The Bakers lived by the firm belief that a fully organized schedule was the pillar that kept a household functioning and society from crumbling: everything in its place, at its time, and all would be well.

Sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the window was about as off schedule as Susan had ever been. Her mother (God keep her) would have had a fit. Susan could almost hear her now: _Feel sorry for yourself, and the world will feel sorry for you. What will you have accomplished, then, but filling a room with gloomy faces? Now, stop sulking, love, and fetch me that rag over there, would you?_

Bless her soul, she could never stand the sight of someone wallowing in misery, and had never indulged in any act so deplorably selfish. Carry on, keep busy, such was their family's way.

Susan gave herself three more seconds of moping, then pushed herself up and went to collect her shawl. It was time for her to pick up the pieces.

* * *

There was a spot at the very edge of the prairie, protected by a tall oak tree. Its massive trunk stood tall and thick like an old guard, even raising its sturdy roots to cradle its ward.

Anne sat with her head resting against the ridged bark, caressing the earth, running her fingers over the soil in soothing patterns.

"At least your Grandmother and I are getting along: that's the good news. It's not perfect, but I'm working on it. We'll be embroidering curtains together tomorrow."

Ingleside was visible from here, its pale blue facade contrasting with the tall brick wall contouring the gardens. She marvelled at her own detachment: the house hadn't been hers for a while, she supposed. There was a new garden to which to look forward, a new house to furnish. That one would truly be home, for her and her family.

"Your father and I will be back next week, to check on things. We're saying goodbye to this place - but not to you. Never to you, love." She could no sooner bid farewell to her own left arm. "You're always with us, no matter where we are."

* * *

Anne had the wandered from one end of the platform to the other. With the exception of the man at the ticket booth, she had the station to herself.

This would be the last time she or Gilbert would need to travel this particular route alone, she mused, a thought which was somewhat comforting. It was wonderful to know that she could, if she so desired, but would never have cause to do so again. She'd had more than her fill of travelling by herself.

She reached the end of the eastern side of the platform, and turned west: off in the distance, by the conductor's cabin, was the unmistakable stout figure of Susan Baker waddling across the deserted quay. Her heart sped up, anxious yet hopeful that she'd changed her mind.

"For the boys," panted the woman breathlessly, thrusting a tin in her hands. "Monkey faces."

"Thank you," she accepted the tin gingerly, eyeing Susan to see if she would say anything.

"I have no regrets," she explained curtly, as though reading Anne's mind. "I did what I had to do: my conscience is clear."

Anne sighed, her hope evaporating, though she wasn't so surprised. When she said nothing, Susan continued.

"You abandoned those poor darlings, long before you even left. And the Doctor - I know it's not my place to say, but if it wasn't for me, the poor man would have nothing to come home to! What sort of wife can't greet her husband at the door after a gruelling day's work? What sort of mother... how could you stand by, and do nothing?"

"It was easy. Every time I tried to do something, you would step in and chastise me for doing it wrong. No, that was my fault," she raised a hand to silence Susan's protest. "I allowed you to scare me off. I should have had the strength to stick by what I knew. But I was too inexperienced, too worried I'd get it all wrong and make a mess of things... and still too fragile to stand up for myself. And by the time I'd gained some confidence, the boys had already formed their allegiance to you."

Susan sniffed back what Anne strongly suspected might have been tears of love, laced with pain and frustration. Blowing out a loud breath, she spoke again. "You could have done something about it. Asked the Doctor to dismiss me, imposed yourself. Not that I wanted you to - but why didn't you?"

"Because I am their true mother." Anne smiled meekly at Susan's puzzlement. The notion had occurred to her on the train ride from the Bright River station. "Do you recall the tale of King Solomon and the baby?"

Grey eyebrows shot up, horrified. "Mrs. Doctor! What for the world does such - _indecency_ \- have to do with anything?"

Her reaction took Anne aback. "Susan, it's hardly indecent - it's straight out of the Old Testament! The book of Kings," she assured the flustered woman.

"Mrs. Doctor," she huffed, her firmness tinged with hysteria. "Clearly, some passages of the Good Book were not meant to be discussed. Particularly the ones with..." she glanced around, ensuring that they stood far enough from the ticket booth to whisper: " _harlots!_ "

Oh, how Anne would have laughed, had it been anyone else, on any other day. "They were also mothers, who loved their children dearly," she reminded Susan patiently.

"I fail to see what a heretic king and his sword have to do with anything," the flushed woman argued. "Of all the savage, barbaric-"

The train arrived then, cutting her rant short. It was just as well, Anne figured - Susan had made up her mind, and would not be swayed.

"Thank you," she spoke as the noise slowed down to a halt, holding out the tin. "But I can't accept these. If you choose to join us, you may deliver them yourself, bake for the boys as much as you'd like. Unless you can agree to my terms, I will ask you to stay away from us all. Gilbert and I would be happy to provide you with references, should you prefer to find work in the Glen."

She transferred the gift back into Susan's hands and turned to leave, pausing halfway at the door. "The tale isn't about harlots, or kings. It's about what it means to be a mother: a _real_ mother. You might read it again, refresh your memory: 1 Kings 3:26."

And with a final half smile, Anne boarded the train, assisted by a bewildered conductor, stunned by the dramatic parting words which he'd most certainly overheard.

Susan stood on the platform, idle for the second time that day, watching the engine depart with a clangorous start. Her memory needed no refreshing: she recalled the words perfectly. Worse than the immoral nature of the characters, was the crudity of its lesson. Humbled, she cried until the last wagon of the train had disappeared around the bend in the distance, clutching the tin to her breast.


	17. A Solid Foundation

"Back already?" exclaimed Sarah Blythe as Gilbert and Anne walked up the sinuous stone path that led to the house. "We weren't expecting you till much later. Did it go well, then?"

"Easier than expected," said Gilbert. "It's a nice place - big, with yard around it. We'd have to build a new stable, the one they had there was in ruins... the house might need some work, too."

Sarah's eyes widened. "You bought it, then? It's a done deal?"

"There's still some documents to go over - land titles and such, but we've pretty much secured the deal."

"Oh, Gilbert, that's wonderful!" she threw her arms around her son. "Let me throw on some tea to go with the raspberry roll I made this morning. We'll have a little celebration!"

"Sounds nice. Are the boys around?"

"In the barn, playing with the kittens. Walter's already asked if he can take one to the new home."

Gilbert grinned at Anne. "Shall we go meet the newest addition to our family?"

"You go ahead," she replied with a small smile of her own. "I'll stay and help with the tea."

"Oh - alright." He placed a confused peck on her cheek, and walked out.

In the wake of his absence, the kitchen grew quieter, save for the odd ceramic _clink_ of dishes being stacked, and silverware counted out. Anne opened her mouth to formulate sentences which wouldn't begin. Her mother-in-law sprinkled a dusting of sugar over the roll, her shoulders tense and slightly hunched.

Their silence thickened as they worked with their backs to each other. Just when Anne had mustered the courage to ask Sarah for the raspberry roll recipe (which she had already jotted down on a card), it was Sarah who spoke first.

"I hope the new house isn't too far from the school."

Anne blinked, then smiled. "It is a bit far," she conceded. "I was worried about it at first, especially for the winter, until Gilbert pointed out that they could easily stop here or at Green Gables for a visit. It's on the way, and he or I could come pick them up."

"Oh!" Sarah's face glowed with excitement. "You could all stay for supper!"

"I'd stock your pantry," offered Anne wryly. "Does Jem seem to be eating more these days? I didn't think it possible, but..."

"Lord knows where that boy puts it - such a lanky thing! Mind you, Gilbert was the same. That boy had an appetite... when he and his father came back from out West, he was so thin that I blamed John of starving him. My poor boy, at ten he'd been a pudgy little thing, just up to my waist."

Both women sighed wistfully. "And then, at thirteen, up to my shoulders, and thin as a rail! I threw a dreadful fit, wouldn't let John get a word in edgewise. Baked for three days straight, stuffed Gilbert like a Christmas goose - of course, he played along, taking advantage of the extra treats. It wasn't until Eloise Wright came over asking me if he was being fed enough at home, that I came to realize what a bottomless pit of a boy he was!"

Anne chuckled at the idea of a hungry teenaged Gilbert, ever famished, feasting in his friends' kitchens. "I have little doubt Jem does the same at the Wrights'. Diana spoils him shamelessly - 'a growing boy' and all..."

"He _does_ have the appetite of a farmer," remarked Sarah. "You don't think...?"

Anne shrugged. "I've wondered. He's already asked to spend his summer at the Wright farm - I agreed, but only until mid-July. He and Walter need to catch up on their school work."

"Oh, they'll do fine," the grandmother waved her concerns away indulgently. "You and Gilbert had fallen behind once, and you both finished ahead of the rest!"

"That's true enough, though I never technically _fell_ behind - I started behind. Very behind," concluded Anne with a note of sorrow.

Sarah regarded her with some curiosity. "Were you not taught lessons at the orphanage?"

Anne smirked. "Not that kind of lessons, no."

"Surely you went to school, when you were with families..." Sarah trailed off, recognizing the improbability of her own thought. "Well, whatever you had before, it must have worked - you've turned out to be a brilliant scholar."

The redhead looked down at the spoons in her hand. "Nothing. I had nothing." She glanced up. "I was placed behind at the school here, you see, but not as behind as I should have been. When Mr. Phillips was testing my skills... I copied the sums from a student in the first row. He never noticed. As for the reading, I had to guess most of the words, but he wasn't listening anyway - Prissy Andrews was writing her answers on the blackboard, and he got distracted."

Sarah did not know what to say to that. "Goodness," she finally exclaimed, a hand over her bosom, the sifter quite forgotten in her hand at the revelation. "However did you manage?"

"I had to work very hard at first. Reading turned out to be a lot of fun - it was as though all the knowledge in the world that had been kept from me was suddenly available in books, and I couldn't get enough of it. Writing was a bit more painstaking at first, but it lent me a voice - people were forced to pay attention, and I liked it. As for mathematics..."

Here, she lowered her voice conspicuously: "I might have copied off Diana at first - only until I could get a hang on it. Don't tell Gilbert."

"Don't tell me what?" demanded Gilbert as he strolled back into the kitchen.

"Nothing!" his wife and mother quipped in unison.

"Are we having tea some time this century?" John popped in, only to recoil at the daggers being shot from his wife's murderous glare. "Sorry, I meant to say - what can I do to help, dearest?"

"You can start by getting out of my GILBERT J. BLYTHE! Get your fingers out of there this instant!" scolded Sarah as a whiplashed Anne took a step back.

"But it was dripping!" her son whined, licking red jam from his index. "I was helping."

"Go make yourself useful by getting the boys to wash up. Honestly, you're no better than a child."

Gilbert dared another swipe at the roll (which had set perfectly, and was in no danger of dripping) before fleeing the kitchen, grinning as he narrowly avoided his mother's shooing swats.

"Incorrigible, that one," grumbled Sarah with an apologetic smile to Anne. "Whatever you might have picked up from him, I'm glad it wasn't his manners."

"Oh, don't worry about that," said Anne. "I managed to sabotage myself there without any help."

The woman's smile grew fond, then. "And look how far you've come."

There was an odd sort of silence, in which Anne felt herself vacillating between extreme pride and childish giddiness. She'd grown out of her need for a mellifluous flow of words to articulate her sentiments, allowing her own smile to speak for itself.

"We best go out there before those boys think of some new mischief to stir up. Grab that tray, would you, dear? And then you'll tell me all about the house."

* * *

Far from the cluster of buildings that formed the center of Avonlea, far from the school in the forest, far from the Blythes' farm and Green Gables, way past Lone Willow farm and beyond the large prairie, there was a little white house.

Not so little up close, amended Gilbert. It was large, and not in top shape: they would need to repair most of the windows, give the walls a good layer of paint, maybe even install a whole new chimney, and that was just the outside. To the untrained, unimaginative eye, it didn't look like much.

"What do you reckon?" his low voice had rumbled in her ear the first time they'd seen it. "Is it dreamhouse material?"

Anne had slanted her eyebrows in an effort to mask her enthusiasm. "It has potential," she evaluated coolly. "But let us see how it is on the inside, first."

The interior, as it turned out, was far worse. Today, with the titles and proof of ownership freshly signed in their name, Gilbert fought against the anxiety building up in him: the only thing holding up this house was its undeniably solid foundation. Everything else ranged from being severely used at best, to beyond repair at worst. The floors, the walls, the roof - good Lord, they'd purchased a house with a crumbling roof.

"Yes," he said, swallowing back his panic. "Definitely some potential in here."

"Oh, come now! Where's your sense of adventure?" Anne teased, tugging his arm. "We knew going into this that it would need a few repairs. That's why we got such a good deal on it. At least the foundation is good, you said so yourself! Besides, it really is a charming place, with plenty of land around us. A moat of tall grass and flowers between us and the closest neighbors - who, may I remind you, are our friends, now."

"I wouldn't go as far as calling them that," Gilbert feigned a frown, his anxieties quickly dissipating.

"Josie's like a new person," declared Anne unyieldingly, pausing at the end of the narrow corridor. "She may be a kindred spirit after all. As for Mr. Thorpe, he's... well, it was very kind of him to make place for me in his home."

"Is that it?" challenged Gilbert, now smirking unabashedly. "Because I'm not particularly inspired."

"Oh, but there _is_ good in him! I'm sure of it," contested Anne. "He's...well..."

"Admit it," he towered over her, resting his hands on either side of her head, against the wall. "You can't find another nice thing to say about him."

Anne gulped. "I can, too! He- let's see, he's..." Heavens, she couldn't think with his long, strong arms caging her against the wall. He stood so close that she could feel the heat radiating from him. "He's got a very healthy appetite," she stammered. It was the only thing that had come to mind, and she instantly felt foolish for voicing it.

Gilbert threw his head back and laughed. "So have I, Sweetheart - so have I." He ducked his head so that their faces were level, his eyes darkened with lust. "Might be a different kind of appetite, thought. Now that you bring it up, I'm actually starving."

"What - right here?" panted Anne, scandalized at his suggestion, but enticed nonetheless. He grinned suggestively.

"Why not? It'll be - great Scott!" he cried in surprise as his hands went straight through the wall. He tumbled forward until his palms hit the solid foundation and he was up to his elbows in crumbling, rotted wall, and it was Anne's turn to laugh. "That's it, I'm razing this place to the ground."

"Don't you dare!" giggled Anne, ducking under his arm, but he caught her before she could run off, and didn't release her until much later.


	18. Fertile Grounds

Gilbert Blythe strolled down the road with his bag in his hand and a carefree whistle on his lips, oblivious to the barely disguised glances and murmurs following in his wake. For as glad as the Avonlea folk were of his return (and tired of Dr. Porter's brisk scoldings regarding their health), they had yet to make sens of the return of the Blythes' golden son.

He would have laughed at their speculations: had he and Anne come home, ruined and destitute, waiting to seize Green Gables from Marilla Cuthbert's cold hands? They'd gone and bought that pile of fallen bricks from the Coopers, far on the outskirts... But their clothes seemed too new, and in good condition: no, Leonore Dawson had heard from her cousin who lived two towns down from Glen Et Mary: the doctor had been fired from his job at the hospital, after his wife had behaved abominably towards his director. But hadn't he been working at a clinic? Not a hospital... Perhaps he'd come home to look after his parents. John Blythe wasn't getting any younger, you know - Was Sarah ill? She did seem peaky at the last quilting circle... They'd have to investigate this Sunday in church (but discreetly, of course).

Amusing and infuriating as the gossip might have been, Gilbert paid it no mind. As a matter of fact, he didn't seem to notice much of his surroundings as he cut through the Bells' field: a normally forbidden shortcut, but he supposed that Mr. Bell would be in a forgiving mood, seeing as he hadn't yet paid the outstanding bill for the seashell Gilbert had extracted from little Ellen Bell's instep.

So, he was back to paying house calls and dodging cow pies. Gilbert found that he didn't mind: he'd rather missed not having an employer breathing down his neck. The residents of Avonlea had welcomed him back with little trepidation, though it had been expressed in a town meeting that they wished the doctor wouldn't choose to live so far from the center - how would he handle emergency calls? - to which he had pointed out that Dr. Porter would keep handling the more urgent matters, and if another pressing need manifested itself, Gilbert would be one telephone call and a horse ride away.

His reluctance to be on duty at all hours should have put an end to the rumors of his poor financial status. In fact, the clinic still owed Gilbert for the hours he'd put in during his last trip to the Glen, and their old house had been sold for a rather large sum, ensuring that money would not be an issue for the time being. Should their savings suffer, he would simply take on more work.

If Dr. Blythe's attitude was much laxer than it had been in a long time, his wife was to blame (or credit, depending on one's point of view). The couple had started fresh in Avonlea with a renewed sense of complicity, almost evocative of their salad days: sharing mischievous smiles, dancing at social gatherings, taking refuge in the woods of their childhood. There was good reason for their peculiar behavior, though the town would have to wait before being privy to the cause.

Smiling privately, Gilbert let himself in his house. "Darling? I'm home!" he called, knowing that they had the house to themselves for the rest of the day. He made a mental note to thank Fred for keeping Jem and Walter overnight, and to bring the Wrights a large cut of the butcher's nicest beef when he went over to pick them up tomorrow.

"In here, love." Gilbert dropped his bag and hung his hat before following her voice into the kitchen. The smell of fresh paint and varnish hadn't quite dissipated, though the floor and walls had already taken a beating from the furniture being moved in (and the boys' rough style of playing indoors). There would be many scratches and smudges to come, he told himself wryly.

He paused at the entrance of the kitchen to drink in the sight of his wife, sitting at the table. Naturally, she'd chosen the seat closest to the window: bathed in late afternoon light, the top of her head glowed bright enough to light up the rest of the room.

"And how are my ladies?" he asked as he approached.

"You're awful sure of yourself," she strained her neck upwards to reach for a kiss. Gilbert happily obliged, bracing himself against the tabletop as he bent over to greet her properly.

"I told you, I have a feeling about this one," he grinned down at her. Crumbs from what must have been an afternoon snack decorated the otherwise empty plate in front of her; an opened envelope beside it. "From a friend?"

Anne frowned, and Gilbert leaned in once more to press his lips to the adorable wrinkles between her eyes. "I'm not sure," she said. "It might be a mistake - but I don't think it is. I haven't figured it out yet."

"Figured what out, darling?"

She handed him the card she'd been holding wordlessly. On one side, two lines of type:

 _Heard that congratulations are in order.  
Wishing you all the best. _

The other side held the picture of a nondescript house on a street corner, surrounded by a lush, unkempt garden. The shades of grey on the photograph suggested a variety of colored blossoms among the overwhelming foliage.

"I have no idea who it's from," Anne shook her head.

"I'd say it's rather obvious," Gilbert handed her the card back.

"It is?" she brought the card up to her nose to scrutinize it. "There's no signature anywhere, and nothing on the envelope beside our address - and a Toronto postmark."

Gilbert smirked. "And you don't recognize the house?"

"Should I?" She looked again, and then- "Oh! But... how?"

"I know; it's barely recognizable."

" _I'_ ll say!" Anne stared at the photograph in wonder. "Do you think he's been there?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Either that, or they've been corresponding."

"Incredible," she muttered, tracing the large fern leaves with the tip of her finger. "Nothing ever grew while I was there, no matter how hard I tried. I'd given up all hope of seeing anything sprout from the ground, not even a single blade of grass..."

"Some things don't happen right away," reasoned Gilbert in a gentle tone that implied he wasn't necessarily referring only to vegetation. "They might need a little more time: it doesn't make them any less special."

"Hmm," she purred as he planted a row of kisses along the side of her neck. "I'm glad you think so."

"I know so." He deposited a light peck on the tip of her nose, and stood to fill the kettle.

"I wish I had a way to get back to him," sighed Anne.

"I have an address," he replied.

"You do?" she shone her starry eyes at him, and he felt himself utterly powerless to refuse his wife anything.

"I'll fetch it for you after I fix us some tea."

"Oh, Gil, would you? I mean, you don't mind...?"

He shook his head. "I told you: it takes a decent man to do what he did for us. I'm in his debt."

Anne smiled and touched rested her hand on her stomach. "We could name this one after him, to settle the score."

The kettle clunked down on the stove. "Nope. No way. And in case you've forgotten, it's a girl you've got in there."

"Shame on you, _Doctor_ Blythe, for believing in those old wives' tales," Anne chastised, grinning wickedly. "Jacqueline, then, if you're so sure."

"Over my dead body," he growled, seizing his wife by the shoulders and planting a long, hard kiss on her mouth. Hands roamed and skirts shifted, and playtime stretched before them - as long as the kettle would allow.

* * *

 _To:_ _Denver Publishing House_  
 _42 Wellington Lane, Toronto, ON_

 _Dear Jack,_

 _Thank you for your kind words, as well as the photograph. I have framed it and set it at a place of honor on my desk. It serves as a reminder that not everything in life grows organically: some things need to be cultivated, and progress is not always visible above ground._

 _I grow bigger by the day (Gilbert chooses to interpret this as a sure sign that it we're having a girl) and find myself quite unable to travel at the moment - climbing_ _up and down a single flight of stairs is the extent of my exercise nowadays. Should you ever find yourself in the general area, know that you will always be welcome in our home._

 _Please send my fondest regards to Dr. Lebrun. And, Jack - do take care of yourself._

 _Your friend,_

 _Anne Blythe_

* * *

 **A/N: Getting closer to the end, but we're not _quite_ there yet! For those of you who are interested, the latest chapter of Intimate in Our Own Way sort of hints at how Gilbert and Anne arrived to this point. It is, however, M rated, so if that's not your cup of tea, feel free to pass. **

**Many thanks to all who read, and special thanks to those who review! I'm still trying to reply to all your kind words and clever insights by PM.**

 **Guest, thank you so much, and no: we're not done yet, and yes: there _will_ be powdered sugar, cavity inducing M chapters to balance out the grim, bitter ones. **

**Cheers!**

 **mavors4986**


	19. Debatable additions

_AN: Dear readers, sorry for the long silence! I'll try to update more frequently from now on. Thanks to you all who are still reading - and special thanks to MrsVonTrapp for her support, friendship, and positive energy!_

"We can't seem to make up our mind - I'll confirm that it's a good idea, and Anne'll go back on it. Then _she_ 'll decide that it's the right thing to do, and _I_ 'll have my doubts. We take turns encouraging and dissuading each other - honestly, it's taken a strain on us."

"And how do you settle your arguments, if at all?"

"Oh, we do," Gilbert's wholehearted reply brought a flush to Anne's cheeks.

"They're not exactly arguments," she elaborated. "We'll... study the matter together, encourage each other to look at it from different angles. Yet somehow, we never seem to end up in agreement."

"I see." The doctor steepled his fingers pensively. "You two were schoolmates, weren't you?"

"That's correct," acknowledged Gilbert.

"Study mates?"

"All the time," confirmed Anne.

"And how...er, _calm_ were your study sessions then?"

"Well," she began, "we always tried to help each other in a civilized manner..."

A choked snort shifted their mediator's attention to the man beside her. "Gilbert, you disagree?"

"Civilized?" he grinned. "Anne, do you remember Euclid, our junior year?"

"That was one time!" she rebuked.

"Oh, was it? Then what of our first year, the Tory campaign? Macbeth, at Queen's-" he was cut short by a hand to his mouth.

"Fine: we have had some... rather vocal altercations."

"We scandalized our peers, terrified my mother," Gilbert interjected dryly, "and had to be forcefully separated by Mrs. Lynde-"

"I believe what he's trying to say, is-"

"-twice."

"Oh, all _right._ So, we argued often," Anne gave in with a sardonic smile laced with affection.

"Frequently," agreed Gilbert. "We still do - why, we're even doing it now!"

"But we don't mean anything by it," she defended. "It's always been our way - and we always make up afterwards, even though it might take us some time to get there."

"It's taking very little time, these days," he amended with a grin, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.

The doctor merely smiled. "Might I share my thoughts on the matter?"

"Please," implored Anne, suddenly serious.

"It seems to me that you both share the same hopes and qualms, but never simultaneously. Am I right?" He received matching nods, and continued. "You're tackling this problem the same way you used to, as class friends: by arguing the pros and cons, debating each corner of the subject. Would you agree?"

"Yes."

"Absolutely."

He leaned back in his seat and sighed. "Well, there's the issue. This isn't a debate. Matters of life - changing life, _giving_ life - aren't supposed to be resolved by educated opinions. Situations like these are to be governed with emotions, instinct-"

"I'm not sure I'm understanding this correctly," Gilbert cut in, his brow furrowed in consternation. "You want us to leave something this crucial to a whim?"

"Not a whim: a feeling. And the more crucial the matter, the more emotional your response ought to be. Would you reason through life's events, rather than feel them?"

Anne turned to her husband. "Put that way, it does make sense," she said tentatively.

There was a tense wait before Gilbert nodded. "Checkmate, Doctor," he grinned.

"That's still Kenneth to you," teased the young Doctor good-naturedly. "We have a bit of time left - is there anything else you'd like to discuss?"

The young lovers glanced at each other, then back at the man who'd helped them reunite. "Nothing that comes to mind - I believe we're mostly doing all right," said Anne hesitantly - as though she could hardly believe her own admission.

"I think we need to talk to each other," completed Gilbert. "Sort out how we actually feel about... things. But we won't overdo the debating," he added quickly.

"So long as you allow your unadulterated emotions to rule, you may discuss all you please." Kenneth stood up and shook one patient's hand, inclining his head politely at the other. "Keep me informed, and call in to schedule another appointment if you feel the need. And Anne, Gilbert - congratulations to you both!"

* * *

Oh, she was an odd looking child. Even at the age of six, she knew this about herself: her eyes, too wide for her triangular face, were an odd shade of grey; her hair, an even stranger shade of red. Shocking traits on their own, they were pulled together by a ghostly complexion, speckled with orange, thus lending her the most repugnant air of being perpetually ill.

If only she'd been tall and sturdy, like Marie-Pétronille, or had bouncy golden locks like Marie-Sixtine. Marie-Clotilde was usually a favorite, with her violet eyes and creamy skin: it was only a matter of time before she was adopted, and then Marie-Benoîte would be next in line, for her perfect teeth and healthy coloring.

Oddly enough, it was Marie-Fernande who was retaining the attention of the lady in green. With her rich brown hair and mesmerizing hazel eyes, her dimpled smile and rosy cheeks, it wasn't unusual for her to catch people's eye. _What a pretty girl!_ they would all exclaim at first glance. _T_ _hank you, kind Sir!_ she would reply, smiling back shamelessly. _I'm up for takes - d'you want me? I'll be good, I promise!_

Of course, the minute she beamed back at them and began to babble her nonsense, the spell was broken, and they would recoil, dropping her like a filthy hot potato pulled straight from the ashes. Marie-Fernande's was a silent charm, and unfortunately for her, one which was barely perceived: no one wanted a five-year-old who spoke that much.

And yet, there she was: chattering on without a care, while the lady in green stroked her hair, nodding here and there as she listened. The pretty lady didn't seem repulsed - she smiled down benevolently. Who knew? Maybe this would be Marie-Fernande's lucky day. The prospect was a bit upsetting: despite her incessant jabbering, Marie-Fernande was a friendly one. Bedtime would feel awful quiet without her fanciful tales of elephants, tigers and other made-up animals.

So deflated and lost in thought had she been, that she hadn't notice she had company until she found herself caged by a tall pair of finely trousered legs. Seized with panic, she could do nothing but stand in place and watch as the incredibly long legs folded before her, and into view came the face of The Man.

"And what might your name be?" he asked. One glance at him, and the fear receded. The way he was looking at her wasn't frightening - if anything, it might have been tenderness twinkling in his eyes.

"Didi," she blurted out. "My name is Didi, Sir." Well, if it wasn't her turn to be the blundering fool? But she couldn't help it: no one had ever looked at her so... so softly.

"Didi?" he echoed, surprise arching his perfectly handsome eyebrows. "Is that short for something?"

"Marie-Dieudonnée de la Sainte Croix, Sir. It's a proper christian name - we've all been given proper christian names," she droned automatically, repeating the explanation Mme Dominique had effectively drilled into them. She knew she was talking too much, but she couldn't stop: some unseen force was urging her to latch on to the kindness before her.

"That's fortunate, I suppose," said The Man. "Tell me, Didi: how long have you been here?"

"All my life, Sir. That's all of six years. I've been waiting to get out - and if I thought you might choose me, I'd beg, really I would." The words tumbled from her mouth even faster. "But Nan is my friend, and she'd be upset if I ruined her chances."

"Nan?" The Man tilted his head - the glossy dark waves of his hair shining in the light of the dusty lamp.

"That's Marie-Fernande, over there with the lady. She's real sweet like - she'll be very good, as long as she doesn't talk too much." Which was more than Didi could say for herself at the moment.

The Man seemed to find this funny: his mouth quirked into a genuine, teasing smile, setting off his clean shaven jaw. "You're friends, then?"

"I s'pose. She's never tattled, or been mean to me."

A chilly shadow loomed over them, threatening their meeting. She hadn't heard the matron approach - oh, she was in for it now.

"Dieudonnée, haven't you taken up enough of the gentleman's time?" Madame Dominique interjected, a false veneer of courtesy tinging her icy wrath.

"But Madame Dominique, he spoke to me first!" Her tongue was now loosened beyond control, and she knew her cheek would earn her a sound whipping later, but something told her that she would be fine: The Man wouldn't let anything bad happen to her during his visit.

"Indeed I did," he confirmed, standing tall in front of Didi, as a shield between her and the furious matron. "Madame, if you would allow us a bit of privacy? This young lady and I were getting better acquainted."

 _Acquainted._ She wasn't sure what it meant, exactly, but she liked the sound of it. Anything sounded wonderful coming from The Man - his gentle, yet sturdy voice could make everything appealing. The dark presence retreated, and Didi shuddered to think of the paddling which would inevitably ensue this visit.

"Sorry 'bout that," The Man apologized (though for what, she had no clue): she looked straight into his eyes, and forgot to wonder why. They were a most peculiar color - like a freshly polished floor glinting in the candle light. Though it was safe to talk, now that Madame Dominique was gone and The Man was kneeling in front of Didi once again, she found herself suddenly speechless.

"You want to get out of here, don't you?" he asked in a voice so soft, it made her swallow hard.

"You'd better pick Nan," she said resolutely. "She'll be so sad if you don't. Anyways, I talk too much - she does, too, but she doesn't say wicked things like I do. I only say them sometimes, though I really don't mean to - and Madame Dominique says I need to stop asking too many questions, and pay better attention to my chores. I do try, but what's the point, when no one wants someone as wretched looking as me? I won't fit in anywhere, not with hair this red!"

She waited for the reprimand (she knew she shouldn't speak so loosely), but it never came. Having listened intently to her tirade, The Man smiled through a twinkling gaze, raising a single eyebrow as he pointed a long digit to the lady in green.

Didi hadn't gotten a good look when they'd first arrived - she made it a point never to look back at first, so as to avoid the initial disgust in people's eyes. Upon closer inspection, she noticed that the lady was very pretty. One of her slender, dainty hands was still petting Nan's chestnut tresses; the other caressed her swollen midsection. She sat resting back in her chair ( _Posture!_ Madame Dominique might scold). A pleasant smile, a green hat to match the fancy dress, and under the hat - red!

Not just red: _orange_. Didi knew, because it nearly exactly matched her own.

 _Oh._

The possibilities were so close, she almost didn't dare to entertain the thought. But the way he'd told off Madame Dominique, and that he'd picked her out of all the girls to talk to, and the way he was smiling at her right now...

Maybe, just _maybe_ , Didi would be chosen today.

* * *

"Well, this is a fine pickle," sighed Anne as she dropped unceremoniously onto the bed. "What do we do now?"

"We'll figure something out," replied Gilbert from the looking glass, re-knotting his tie. "Shall we dine out tonight? Henley's is within walking distance, I've always liked their roast..."

"Gilbert, this is serious!"

"So am I," he countered, his reflection sending a crooked grin at her. "It's getting late, and you've got to eat. They do make things beside roast, if you're not in the mood..."

The glare she shot at him would have frightened a mere mortal: Gilbert simply chuckled and went to sit beside her. "It'll be fine, darling. We have all night, and some of tomorrow to figure it out."

"Which is exactly why we ought to start worrying about it _now_ ," she grated out, a green flash of exasperation in her eyes. "It's a terrible confusion, and we're running out of time-"

"Darling, breathe," he reminded her, rubbing her back so lovingly that she had no choice but to submit.

"How can you be so calm about it all?" she grumbled plaintively. "This isn't just big - it's _huge_ , and now it's threatening to blow out of proportion."

"It's only doubled in size, love," he muttered soothingly.

"These are human lives with which we're dealing!" she reminded, her voice regaining some spice. "They're real people, not a - a pet, or an object. Real people, with real feelings-"

"Yes, and so are we," Gilbert pointed out. "And you'll recall what the good doctor said about feelings, regarding big, important, serious things?"

Anne shut her eyes and took a calming breath. when she opened them, the twin hazels were staring back, waiting on her reply.

"Gil?"

"Hmm?"

"I hate when you're right." At that, he threw his head back and laughed: she continued. " _But_ , we do have a problem."

"The way I see it, we have a solution." Anne looked up curiously at her pensive husband. "We're back here, in the Glen, aren't we?"

She sighed: he had a point.

"Anne," he whispered tenderly in her ear. "You were the one to bring it up, remember?"

"I do. I was." And there was nothing _she_ could do to harm her: Anne was safe, happy and content. She and Gilbert were growing stronger together every day, and her relationships with her sons was improving steadily. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, and Marilla would stay close by at her request, should she deem it necessary.

"We don't have to, if you don't want to," soothed Gilbert. "Mother said she'd stay with us, and Marilla'll want to be a part of it all as well. Diana's already volunteered to take the boys for as long as we need. We'll find another way."

"No, I think we have to do this."

"Are you certain, darling?"

"We will need the help regardless," she nodded. "Tell me honestly, Gil: what does your heart tell you? Could you choose, if you had to? Could you select one over the other?"

"No," he shook his head. "I honestly couldn't."

"And neither can I. It might not be easy for everyone straight away - there will be need for many adjustments regardless, some of them drastic. But we have room enough, and food to spare... Most importantly, we have an abundance of unconditional love and warmth to go around. And with help, we can insure that everyone gets cared for - no one gets left behind."

Gilbert stared adoringly at the woman he was lucky enough to call his, swelling up with pride and humility. He swallowed past a lump of emotion and cleared his throat quietly before speaking.

"Well, then: let's go pay Susan a visit tomorrow."


	20. By any other name

"It's arranged, then," concluded Mrs. Sloane, relishing her temporary presidency of the Ladies' Aid: a prestigious position which came with the hosting duties for their meeting that week. "Judith will start off the dinner drive for the Harrisons tomorrow, and Ella will be drawing up the chart for the rest of the week - you'll need to bring it over tomorrow, dear. Now, I believe we've gone over everything..."

"If you don't mind, Enid, I'd like to say something," said Mrs. Blythe, startling Marilla from the boredom she would never admit to feeling.

Mrs. Sloane granted her a pinched a pinched smile. "Well, Sarah, if you must..."

"Thank you." Mrs. Blythe stood from her seat to address her peers. "As most of you might have noticed, there have been changes in our family. My son and daughter-in-law have returned from their latest trip with two girls. Nan and Di are both six years old: the orphanage had no records of either of their birth dates, so we are treating them as twins."

No one dared speak a word, but the heads turned so sharply that it was a miracle none suffered whiplash. Meaningful glances frantically communicated as loudly as any voice would, _well-I-never_ s and _told-you-so_ s tossed about by the quirk of eyebrows and smug grimaces.

This silent cacophony was cut short by the deafening clearing of Mrs. Blythe's throat: a ravenously curious stillness took over the Ladies once more.

"Anne and Gilbert have had adoption on their minds for some time. They are bringing the girls up as their own daughters, and sisters to their sons, as well as to the baby they are expecting. Once they've caught up with their lessons, they will join the school. And when they do, I trust that they both will receive as congenial a welcome as they've received upon joining the congregation."

With that, Mrs. Blythe smiled and sat back down. Had she not been looking for it, Marilla might have missed the dangerous flash in her eyes; or Mrs. Andrews' evasive gaze, or the way Mrs. Sloane tried to fan the flustered flush from her cheeks. Everyone did notice Mrs. Pye cough in her handkerchief - as no Pye was capable of suffering any emotion in silence, even embarrassment.

The Ladies' meeting dissolved quicker than usual that day, and not a single word was uttered about the peculiar new girls in town until Mrs. Blythe's buggy was out of sight.

* * *

"But we want to stay with you, Grandpa!" came the inevitable protest amidst the brouhaha in the foyer. John smiled at the pleading Jem over the tangle of flailing scarves and limbs stretching into their coat sleeves. Theirs was a full flock now, he reflected with satisfaction, and growing fuller yet.

"Mother, where's Mr. Moose?" interjected Walter, whose coat had been buttoned askew in his distraction.

"I gave him to Di, love," replied Sarah from where she was crouching, tugging firmly at the little redhead's shoelaces. "She can have a turn with him now, can't she?"

"Of course," shrugged the boy, settling comfortably into his roll of older brother. "I just wanted to make sure he wasn't lost."

"Why can't Grandmarilla ride with us?" begged Nan. "We could make room!"

"That buggy couldn't fit another mouse with you all crowding it, let alone another person," scoffed Marilla, petting the little brunette affectionately. John noticed she'd given up on correcting her name (just becoming _Aunt Marilla_ had been a hard enough adjustment): he even suspected that she rather enjoyed the endearment.

"I could sit on Father's lap," volunteered Di, who'd recently learned she could ask to occupy the place of honour.

"Not while Father is driving, sweetie - it isn't safe. But I'm sure he won't mind reading you a story in bed when we get home, isn't that right, darling?" called Anne over her shoulder.

From the other side of the hallway, Gilbert hadn't heard the question. "Thanks for supper, Ma," he said, kissing Sarah on the cheek before hoisting little Di up in his arms.

"Drive safely," called John as six pairs of feet shuffled out the door. "Mind that patch of ice out by the Monroes'."

"I will, Dad. Good night!"

"His name is _Grandpa_!" Di's correction drifted in just as the door was shut, plunging the house once again into silence.

The three remaining adults took a brief moment to appreciate the change in volume, before Sarah remembered her manners. "I managed to hide some of the cookies from Jem. Shall we have some spiced tea to go with them?"

"Sounds good," agreed John.

Marilla glanced out the window at the swirling gusts which tossed fallen leaves up in the air. "I should probably get going before the wind picks up..."

"I'll give you a ride," offered John. "But not before we've had something warm to drink to go with those cookies."

Unable to refuse politely, the guest followed her hosts to the freshly cleared kitchen, and took a seat by the stove.

"They seem to be holding up fine," commented Sarah as she slipped cinnamon sticks into mugs. "Mind you, those girls could still do with a bit more fattening..."

"They're being fed plenty," assured John. "They'll catch up soon enough."

"It took years to get Anne up to a proper size. A rail of a thing, she was..."

They took a moment to remember the thin girl who'd barrelled into their lives, starved for more than just attention. Embarrassed to have caused an uncomfortable silence, Marilla continued. "Nan reminds me of her. All those questions!"

"I keep calling Di 'Anne', the poor thing," sighed Sarah, distributing the piping hot cups. "Their resemblance is stunning, don't you think?"

"It is a bit like seeing the original pair again," agreed Marilla around careful sips.

John smiled. "I hope the world is ready for another round of Anne and Diana."

"I meant to thank you."

Sarah glanced over the rim of her cup. "Thank me...?"

"For speaking up at the meeting yesterday."

The couple exchanged looks of concern over the woman's chagrined demeanor. "Marilla-"

"I should have said something when Anne first came in. They all talked, sometimes right to her face - after she'd scandalized Rachel that first time, I told her to endure it quietly: to respect her elders. Never stood up for her... I didn't think it was my place."

Taken aback by her emotional outburst, John struggled to find words of sympathy, but it was his better half who spoke first.

"Well," she said quietly. "I'll take my share of the blame as well. It's not as though I made much effort to understand where she was coming from. Not even when things became...tough for them. I was too busy worrying about whether Gilbert's shirts were being ironed," here, her voice wobbled alarmingly, "to wonder why it was an issue at all."

"Knowing is worse," argued Marilla. "I saw the signs, and still did nothing about it. When she first came to stay with us, she always kept that ratty carpetbag packed. I knew we shouldn't have made her wait for our verdict - told Matthew we needed to be careful, but I can see now that it was cruel. Every day, I'd unpack it: show her which closets and drawers were hers to use... By the next morning, it would be packed again and stowed under the bed. She took to hiding it in different places, and so I just..."

Her composure began to crumble faster than the lemon snaps Sarah had baked. "Why didn't we tell her she was ours? Why couldn't I be what she needed? I never let her call me mo-"

The word remained half-strangled in her throat, too painful to utter.

"You could start now," suggested John soberly.

Marilla shook her head with uncharacteristic despondence. "It's far too late for any of that. She's got her own family to mind - what would she need a parent for, at her age?"

"A child never stops needing their mother," explained Sarah in a gentle voice. "They learn to get by as they grow older, but they never stop craving their parents' love and affection." She reached tentatively for the woman's hand, half expecting for her own palm to be slapped away.

Marilla turned imploring eyes to the man who'd once been her beau, as if asking for permission to hope.

"Reckon she already thinks of you as a mother, of sorts," he shrugged. "But I'm sure she'd appreciate the gesture, if nothing else."

* * *

Far across town, another mother was gazing fondly over her four sleeping babes, her hand resting on the bump where her fifth was definitely _not_ sleeping, by the feel of it.

"They'll need to learn to sleep in their own room," whispered their father, peeking over her shoulder at his cuddling cubs: a tradition instigated by the recently renamed Anne (but still went by Nan) who, finding her own bed too daunting, had taken to sneaking into the boys' room - and to their parents' surprise, it was Jem who took her in under his covers. They suspected Freddie Wright had been of some influence: the boy (young man in making, really) tolerated his little sister with the patience of a loving brother.

Di (who'd gladly exchanged her old Dieudonnée for the much sweeter name of Diana) didn't care much for being left behind: she would follow her adoptive twin on the nightly treks across the hallway, and was currently curled up against Walter's back. Though the two were not quite as kindred as Jem and Nan, there was a closeness developing between them.

"They will, eventually," Anne whispered back to her husband. "The boys don't seem to mind - we can let them be tonight."

Gilbert closed the door noiselessly behind them. "Well, shall we follow the trend, and get ready to share a bed of our own?"

"That sounds lovely," she yawned. "Only, don't ask me to go down the stairs and back up again. I was barely able to make it up here just that once."

"I've got it," he assured her. "You two head on to bed, I'll be right there."

"Don't be long," Anne pleaded, blowing him a kiss before heading to the bedroom. Gilbert grinned as he went to fill a pitcher for their nightstand: how satisfying it felt to live in a big renovated house, with his big family still under construction. He knew his wife would be fast asleep by the time he joined her, and looked forward to cradling the stomach in which his unborn daughter nested.

 _And wouldn't be wonderful if she were to have red hair as well?_ was Gilbert's last dreamy that night before he blew out his candle.


	21. Farewell in peace

_AN: WARNING: This chapter contains what might be considered violent and graphic material, including physical abuse, thoughts of death and suicide._

 _This is it! The penultimate chapter - a bit longer than the others, because there is so much left to say, and only one more after this! Minus the epilogues, of course. Those don't really count as chapters, do they? I've already mapped out two of those, but wouldn't mind adding on a couple more, if there are pressing requests :) Thank you so much for reading and reviewing - your support and comments are precious to me!_

Anne gazed enviously at the branch outside her window. A bench to many a bird, it was now vacant, its most resilient leaves waving their greetings to her as their host bobbed lazily with the wind. How she longed to be that branch: something solid, attached to a sturdy trunk... or even one of those leaves: though they would fall eventually, they were very much alive now. After the plunge, they would remain beautiful, and become useful to an animal padding their nest, or even decomposing to regenerate life.

Instead, Anne had to prepare herself for the possibility of no more. The end was approaching - well, it came for everyone, really, but hers might be exceptionally close. And while she'd had her fair share of this sweet Earth, a less rational part of her felt it cruel to be called now, when her expanded family had just found its equilibrium.

It was horribly unfair to have one's happiness wrenched away, especially when it had been achieved at such a cost. On the other hand, she mused, there might be something romantic about taking her leave while her loved ones were all happy and together. Of course, they would be upset, but it wasn't as though they were losing everything. They were a big family now: they'd still have each other. Hopefully, they would understand that she really had no choice but to go this time.

Perhaps it was because death was not a complete stranger, that Anne was not terribly afraid of it today. There were people waiting for her "over there": her parents, and Matthew... others would join her when their time came.

Besides, she'd had her own personal brushes with The End of it all. With some retrospect, she could see the narrow escape of a stranded Lily Maid, rescued by the handsome prince; walking the ridge roof hadn't been prudent either, and had she tumbled any differently, it might have been her neck snapped instead of her ankle sprained. And then, there was that nasty turn of events at the inn above the tavern... but that was folly, not a real attempt. A reckless reaction, a selfish need to rid herself of pain, in which she would never indulge again. There was really nothing to say about it anymore, but thank goodness for Jack Garrison.

There had been another brush, a long time ago, in another world. Early memories from her previous life were few, but there was one she remembered very clearly now, of a girl - a very young girl - with a book...

 _She could only read at night. Well, it wasn't reading, exactly, but staring at the letters and willing them to make sense. Sometimes, she could interpret an entire newspaper, front to back - other times, she struggled with a single word on a label. This had gotten her in trouble many times at the store: after a particularly vicious lashing, the Missiz had told her to recognize the tins and bags by color and shape, and not waste her time on things beyond her grasp._

 _Sneaking out of the twins' room was easy enough: igniting what was left of her candle in the stove's dying embers took some time, but the wick caught on eventually. With the lumpy stump of melting wax balanced precariously on the old chipped saucer she used as a candleholder, there was barely enough light to distinguish shapes from shadows._

 _As she held the book up to the dim glow, she could make out characters dancing by the flicker of the flame. There was the "O", which she knew made just that sound. The Prince (who'd earned his name because of his triangular face with a moustache across it) stood protectively by the Tall Lady, the train of her gown dragging on the floor beside her. In another row, she spotted the House (recognizable by its double chimneys) by the large Winding River (not to be confused with the small Winding River)._

 _The flame quivered and diminished to almost nothing: pressed to use up whatever light she might, the avid reader brought the manuscript closer yet. In her eagerness, she moved too close to the candle, and the top of the page she'd been deciphering caught a tinge of orange, as bright as her own hair._

 _It started slowly: just the edge of the sheet browning, curling onto itself as it was being consumed... and then it spread. All along the length, larger flames devouring the paper, licking hungrily at the binding..._

 _No thought seem to register in her mind, other than the fact that she was holding fire in her hands, and that a bit of warmth was pleasant for a change. She was tired of always being cold at night - the sack she used to cover herself did nothing to shield her from the drafts - tired of carrying heavy babies, of straining up toward the stove she could barely reach, and the beatings..._

 _She could end it all now. All she needed to do was to hold on. Not to let go, and then she'd never have to worry about feeling cold ever again. She'd never have to worry about feeling anything ever again. No more cold, or hunger, or pain..._

 _An acrid odor crept past her nostrils, seizing her right at the throat. A series of racking coughs snapped her out of her trance, and the sudden impediment in her breathing induced panic. With one quick gesture, the book was tossed into the stove, and the door was clanged shut and latched with shaking fingers._

 _Too busy was she wondering at the last few seconds (to her, they'd felt like several long minutes), it didn't occur to the child that she might have alerted someone with the noise of metal slamming. Ringing internally with shock, her ears did not perceive the babies waking and sounding the alarm, and in her eyes still shone the flames which might have transported her to a Valhalla beyond her imagination - which was why she did not see the Missiz approach until she was pulled up to her feet by her hair, and a resonant smack to the cheek sent her head from one side to the next._

 _The blows kept on coming, and the Missiz called her all sorts of words she did not know (though she knew they must have been quite bad), but the child hardly minded them. It was as though, after being imprisoned all this miserable time, she'd finally discovered a way out. A secret door, of sorts - one which would take her to another place. And while she had no way yet to comprehend the finality of that option, she had glimpsed for one brief moment at the peace which waited beyond..._

It was a bit like that now, Anne supposed. Not that she was looking forward to leaving the entire mortal realm behind (nor had she back then), but she accepted her unknown fate with a measure of tranquility.

And so - just in case - she'd began to prepare for the possibility of The End nearing. Nan and Di were told of all the fun they would be having in their namesakes' old haunts; Walter was given the opportunity to showcase some of his best written stories. When he tired of reading them aloud to his drowsy audience of one, he'd tucked his growing form against her expanded curves for cuddles. It was very sweet, and Anne treasured every moment of joy with as much energy as she could muster.

Jem's visit to her bedside had been more difficult. The growing up he'd done in a short amount of time had heightened his observational skills, and installed a dose of skepticism in him to which Anne was not quite accustomed. It was agreed amongst adults that the children would not be told the gravity of the situation unless (or until) it became absolutely necessary, but the eldest of four (soon to be five) was not as easily appeased as his younger siblings. Anne had done her best to soothe his concern: when that failed, she'd tried explaining that this was the natural course of things, and promised him that she would fight until her last breath, and that he needn't be afraid. She reminded her boy that there was a large family around him, who loved him dearly and would support him whenever he needed - and then cradled his crying form tightly to her bosom, allowing herself to weep a bit over his beautiful copper head.

Marilla had been in as well, nearly every day, bringing in supper on a tray, or changing the flowers by her bedside. Knowing that conversation would not work as it did for anyone else, Anne had taken to asking her to stay and sit with her for a while. Sometimes praying, sometimes knitting, sometimes rubbing Anne's swollen calves... anything to keep her busy and shield her from the most despicable sensation of being helplessly idle.

Diana's visits, while less frequent, were certainly chattier. A new nervousness had taken over her friend, who chased any silent second with casual banter. The slight note of hysteria was so cleverly disguised by her chipper demeanor, only Anne had truly noticed it: after thanking her dearest friend for being the kindred spirit she was, and reassuring her that it was truly all right, she sat back and allowed her bright-eyed, teary Diana to relate the children's latest escapades, laughing genuinely at the scandalous outcomes which nearly (but wouldn't quite) rivalled their own misadventures shared in girlhood.

Anne's heart ached whenever she thought of Gilbert. The only thing which worried her more than being forced to leave him once again, was the way he avoided The Talk with her at all costs. She knew a thing or two about denial, and recognized his brisk bedside manners and forced good humor to be a shield against feelings he very much did not want to feel. Anne didn't blame him, not one bit - but she did worry so. There were things she wished she could tell him: how sorry she was to have wasted so much time when they could have tried to work things out; what a wonderful father he had always been; how there'd never been anyone for her than him.

When he'd last been in to bathe her and help her into a fresh nightgown, she'd tried to tell him how much she loved him. He'd smiled tightly and told her he'd be right back: upon his exit, she thought she might have heard Marilla ask if he was all right. That had been early in the morning, and Anne still hadn't seen him since.

Praying that he would come around in time, Anne summoned one last person: there was one very important matter left to settle.

"You called, Mrs. Dr.?"

"Close the door, please, Susan, and have a seat."

Doing as she was told, the woman shut the door noiselessly and sat in the vacant chair by the bedside. "Is there anything I might do for you, Mrs. Dr.? There'll be millet porridge in a bit: the Doctor insists that you have as much as you can-"

Anne nodded politely. "Thank you - in a bit, perhaps."

It was the first time Anne had deliberately sought to speak with Susan alone since her trip alone to the Glen, and while the vestiges of wariness lingered between them, there was no more hostility. A dense quiet descended upon them like a heavy quilt, warm to the point of discomfort. Blue eyes met grey, and a channel of unspoken understanding passed between them.

"Susan."

"Mrs. Dr., I-"

"I need you to take an oath."

"...An oath, Mrs. Dr.?"

"If anything should happen - you must take care of him."

Susan huffed indignantly. "Well of course! I'll care for them all, including this small one when he's born, while you recover your strength."

Anne shook her head. "You need to care for him. When I'm gone - if I must go - I need you to care for him, as you would your own."

The irony was not lost on her: Susan had come back into the young Blythes' lives with the explicit condition that she was _not_ to undermine and criticize Anne at every turn, and not to present herself (or anyone else) as a better suited mother or wife.

But the situation had changed, and things were different now. Susan had changed as well: the woman they'd visited in the Glen was not the same bustling bundle of energy, authoritative and territorial, with a stark sense of right and wrong, and no tolerance for lack of efficiency.

Susan had aged ten years in the space of one. She now moved slowly, as if everything inside her ached, and she stood with a hunch - signs of trepidation and self-doubt they'd never seen in her before. The Blythes had no way of knowing that a heart to heart with her sister had provided her with some insight on what had happened, and how perhaps the Bakers' style of upbringing had instilled certain ideals in them which might have made them feel more entitled and validated than they really ought to feel.

Made to face some difficult truths, Susan had marinated in regret and self-admonition: still, the resilient woman wouldn't crumple entirely. And so when the Doctor and his wife had extended a hand to her, she'd only hesitated a brief moment before reaching for it. With them, she'd gone to the orphanage where two girls waited with nothing but hope in their eyes and the clothes on their backs, their stockings as mismatched as their hair. Choking back the remarks she'd sworn would never pass her lips again, Susan had gotten to work straight away: taking to needles, thread, fabric and yarn with a vengeance, until she'd sewn and knitted piles of the finest garments Nan and Di had ever seen.

Her return to the family, and time with Walter and Jem especially, seemed to have added a spark in her recently dulled eyes. She took great pleasure in spoiling all the children shamelessly, but did so with care not to assert herself over their mother - who, to her credit, was more involved and proactive than before.

Now, the newly confident woman was placing Susan second in command, asking her to take charge should things take a somber turn. And while she understood the maternal, almost animalistic instinct which drove Mrs. Dr. to bring up the very subject which had caused an irreparable rift between them, it was hard for her to agree on the spot.

"Promise me, Susan," she implored when the silence stretched too long, leaning forward.

"Now, don't you fret!" chided Susan gently, encouraging the woman to rest back on her pillows. "You know the Doctor doesn't want you exerting yourself-"

"Please!" her white face beamed up at the older woman, pale as the moon. "I need to know that he'll be cared for, Susan. You love our children - this child will need your care as well. Promise me you'll love him, like you do the others?"

Susan couldn't refuse if she'd wanted to. "Yes, Mrs. Dr. I will."

"Swear it." The glint of determination kept Susan from showing how evil it would be to swear at all, let alone on such a grave matter.

Instead, she offered a compromise. "My word's as good as I've got: I'll give you that. The child will be as good as my own."

Finally, Anne was able to relax back in her bed. "Thank you," she whispered with a weak smile. "Would you please fetch the Doctor? We might take some tea up here together before supper."

If she thought it unwise not to use the time to rest, Susan said nothing. Instead, she excused herself to prepare a tea tray, wondering at the promise which had been wrangled from her. Something about it sounded awfully wrong, though it felt strangely right. She reflected curiously on the growing admiration she felt for the wife and mother of four who showed no fear for herself, and prayed that it wouldn't come down to that. _Please, Lord,_ she offered through the kitchen ceiling heavenwards - _protect her, and keep us all close to your heart._

* * *

It was late by the time Gilbert had made it to bed that night. He'd been called out on an emergency in the evening, only to return well past suppertime. Once he'd gone through the motions of picking at the plate Susan had left for him, he'd trudged upstairs. His tall frame swayed over the basin as he washed up, and he towelled off listlessly.

The cry came before he'd finished getting dressed for bed. Buttoning up his nightshirt as he hurried down the hall, he hurried into the bedroom where a frightened Di had woken up alone - again. Nan hadn't quite kicked the habit of sneaking into the boys' room: having been instructed not to wake her siblings when they were sleeping, she'd left her sister behind on her way to Jem's bed. Di had begged her parents to let her share Walter's bed, but the boy needed his own sleep. Gilbert had managed to talk her into going to sleep in her own bed by vowing to swoop in if she ever felt afraid or lonely.

As promised, he'd held his girl, soothing his hand up and down her quivering back as she sobbed into his chest. After several minutes of rocking to and fro, she began to calm down: he slowed his motions until she sagged limply in his arms. When he was certain he could move without waking her, he tucked her slumbering form back under the covers. His lips bid her brow a sweet goodnight, and he allowed himself one last fond glance back before propping the door just an inch open.

Gilbert tiptoed across the hall to his own bedroom. The weak, cowardly man that he was could only visit his wife when she was sleeping. It hurt too much to see her, smiling and brave for his sake, while dealing with the very real probability that this baby might not come to the world without some danger.

If Anne was scared, she didn't show her fear. It didn't matter: Gilbert was scared enough for the two of them. Nightmares of losing another baby had him woke him in the middle of the night, covered in cold sweat; life without Anne was just unimaginable. He would not, _could_ not face a future in which she wasn't alive and well; smiling, writing, laughing, weaving tales for the children.

"Gil?" her sleepy head turned on the pillow.

On the spot, he wanted nothing more than to retire downstairs and read until he fell asleep face first in his magazine. If rest didn't happen, he was prepared to work through the night.

"Won't you come to bed, darling?" she pleaded, her hand outstretched.

How could he give in to one redhead, and deny the other? Gilbert complied, and crawled in bed beside his waiting wife, who eagerly nuzzled into him.

"I've missed you," she whispered throatily.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, brushing silken strands from her forehead.

Anne took his hand and brought it to her mouth. "I don't need Dr. Blythe," she kissed the back of his fingers. "I need my husband."

"Anne, we can't-"

"I'm not talking about _that_ , but do save that idea for later." She deposited a second kiss on the tip of his thumb. "I just need to be held. And I think you do, too." A third kiss found his wrist. "Let me hold you, darling."

Warmth and comfort dissolved his defences, until he shook so hard it nearly rattled the bed. A tender hand raking gently through his curls undid him completely, and hot tears burned twin trails down his cheeks.

"Talk to me," Anne invited, dabbing at his face with the handkerchief pulled from her sleeve. "Tell me what's on your mind."

Gilbert sniffed, grateful for the dark. "We still don't have a name for this lady."

It wasn't much, but this was the first time since she'd taken to bed rest that they'd experienced any sort of intimacy. Anne hid her smile. "It's a boy."

"I was thinking maybe Lorraine, after my mother's mother," he carried on, unhearing.

"Do be serious, Gil."

"Or Claire. I really like Claire."

"How about John?" suggested Anne. "Your father would like that, would he not?"

"If we're going our that route, why not Bertha?"

"Gil!" she swatted his arm with surprising force.

"Ow! What? It's a perfectly beautiful name."

"For a _girl_! Heavens, you're incorrigible."

"Shirley."

There was a pause in which name rang in the dark room.

"Shirley?" Anne echoed dubiously.

"Why not?" Gilbert shrugged. "If you're so sure we're having a boy, you won't mind him carrying the family name, would you?"

Anne scoffed. "Good luck getting Shirley to stick on a boy."

"Is that a dare, Mrs. Blythe, née Shirley?" taunted Gilbert, the plait-pulling schoolboy peeking through.

"Stop teasing, and hold us," she grinned, delighted to have the old Gil back, even if it was just for a moment. Had she known that this would be their last conversation before she woke up to agonizing cramps, Anne would have settled for Claire.


	22. His House

Something was off.

Startled from sleep, the Shrimp held his breath, but did not yet open his eyes. His feline senses told him that he was being stalked, albeit not by an opponent stealthy enough to be a serious threat. Thus, he lowered his guard somewhat, and allowed himself a yawn and a luxurious stretch before deigning to acknowledge whatever rude being had disturbed his peaceful slumber.

A pair of glazed, human eyes met his. _Wonderful_ , he sighed contemptuously. _The runt's awake again._

No rest was to be had when the Cub was let loose. Curious and utterly unafraid, she liked to explore his lair on her own, preferably unsupervised. Oh, that she were a bit older, so that he might teach her a lesson about invading his personal space! Just one swipe of his sharp claws, that's all it would take... it would also get him tossed out the back door, and he would be denied access to his own home for the rest of the day. Curling his toes against the urge to deploy his weapons, the Shrimp made himself relax, keeping one eye partially open for sudden movements.

"There you are!" exclaimed the Clever One, collecting the Cub up in his agile hands and shifting to balance her weight against his chest. "You really shouldn't take off like that! And you know better than to bother the Shrimp when he's sleeping. You _know_ how cranky he gets."

The Clever One was among the Shrimp's favorites, second only to the Warm One. He went out of his way to offer pets and gentle scratches when they were required, and snuck him nearly as many snacks as the Hypocrite did. As the largest of the litter, the Clever One had also been trained in patience: even now, as the Cub kicked her silly little booties against his ribcage, the boy held on fast, never once thinking of retaliating. Most importantly, the Clever One knew not to disturb his slumber - and yes, by the way, the Shrimp was _very_ tired, thank you very much for noticing. How could one get any good rest when the humans insisted on barging in on him every six hours or so?

"I've found her!" hollered the Clever one, shifting the burden in his arms to his other hip. The Shrimp cringed to see how close her own tiny claws came to his eye, which her captor dodged easily (he hadn't become the "Clever one" for nothing, after all).

"Oh, thank goodness!" replied the Hypocrite from her own corner of the house. "It's alright, Doctor Dear - Jem's found her!" The sound of her voice almost made the Shrimp seek her out and demand a pat of butter: he knew, though, that if they weren't alone in the kitchen, she would merely chase him out, pretending to be vexed by his presence.

He hesitated, his curled paw poised in midair, before deciding against it. Getting up would be such an effort, he justified to himself. Besides, his spot on the floor would grow cold if he left it for too long. Worse yet, it might be snatched by The Dreamer, against whom he still held a grudge (that absentminded fool had dared to step on his tail last week!). The Dreamer made a most annoying habit of snatching the best sunlit estate in the house. And what a waste, for he didn't even nap in it! No, he'd bend his brown head over a book, reading or writing until the Hypocrite came over to scold him: didn't they have enough seats in the house that he didn't have to lay on the floor and collect dust, and such nonsense.

Mercifully for her, the Hypocrite knew better than to reprimand the Shrimp in such fashion. This, she left to the Tall One: the only human to whom he begrudgingly yielded. As the biggest living thing under his roof, the Tall One carried himself with authority, fancying himself the master of the house. Not quite as smart as the Clever One, but he knew to mind his own business, only stepping in when the Shrimp had made himself too assertive (in his own home!). It was humiliating, really, to be led out by the scruff of one's neck and tossed out into the yard - and yet, the Shrimp knew he would never be able to assert his strength against the Tall One, and so he tolerated him (to some extent).

Speak of the giant beast - in he strode on his long, lean legs, looking foolishly young ever since he'd gotten rid of his whiskers: all that was left now was the ridiculous patch of unruly brown fur curled on top of his head. The Tall One heaved a sigh of relief, unmindful of how embarrassingly transparent he was acting, and transferred the Cub from the Clever One's arms to his own. "Baby girl," he whispered, taking as much pleasure in cradling her as the Shrimp did with the Tall One's shoes when came nap time.

Bored and disgusted with the scene, the Shrimp stretched once more and let himself out of the room. Thinking it was perhaps time to go see about that butter, after all, he trotted in direction of the kitchen. From the hallway, he heard something being chopped (which sounded promising) - and the earsplitting chirps of a little human (decidedly less so). Still, the prospect of scoring a tasty morsel had him venturing across the pleasantly warm tile.

"But, Susan, Rilla doesn't _like_ liver!" whined the Loud One at a frightfully high frequency from the table where she sat, finishing a treat of her own.

"Speak or eat, Child, but not at the same time," chastised the Hypocrite as her hands fluttered busily over the cutting board. "Rilla is still a baby, and will be having applesauce: I hardly think she'll mind what we eat either way."

"We could have applesauce as well," suggested the Coward, glancing at the Hypocrite with hopeful eyes. The Shrimp flicked his tail in disdain: he would have more respect for the Coward if she just showed some backbone! She reminded him of those birds in the yard: all colorful plumage, barely anything underneath. It was laughable, really, the way she panicked every time he encountered her alone: it all stemmed from one little incident when he'd mistaken a bit of lint on her stockings for a mouse... an honest misunderstanding, and it had only happened once, a long time ago! But there was no reasoning with her: the useless thing would quiver and cry, and then the Tall One would swoop in and pick her up in his strong human arms, aiming clumsy, undeserved kicks at the Shrimp.

"Growing girls such as yourselves need to eat their meat and vegetables," pronounced the Hypocrite, steering the conversation back to important matters. "Now, will the two of you kindly get out of my kitchen? Go play - though if you must do so, play outside. And mind your frocks!"

 _That's more like it_ , thought the Shrimp as the Loud One took the Coward by the hand and led her out. His satisfaction was not complete, though: only two of the three occupants of the kitchen table had gone. He groaned to see that the seat closest to the Hypocrite was occupied by the Odd One.

Every litter had an "odd" one: the Shrimp's own sister had been born with horrendous black spots, when the rest of his siblings sported the same striped marmalade coat over cotton white. The Odd One of this pack bore no resemblance whatsoever to the others, physically or in character. He was somewhat browner and _much_ quieter than the rest - the poor thing had no cry, it seemed (though the Shrimp rather found that to be a blessing, at times) - and therefore, was often overlooked. He truly was the Odd One Out: the Hypocrite felt sorry for him, no doubt, and had taken him under her wing - which was all fine and well, but the Odd One did tend to distract her from her duties, such as feeding the Shrimp. She'd said something about liver...?

"Finish your milk, Dearie," she crooned affectionately, returning her attention to the organs on the chopping block, "and then you may have another cookie."

"No thank you," turned down the Odd One, his feet dangling tauntingly from the chair upon which he was perched. Seriously, what kind of idiot passed on treats? And really, how rude of the Hypocrite not to offer anything to the Shrimp first - or at all. Never mind: he would remind her, by circling her ankles.

" _Shoo_ , cat! Out! Animals do _not_ belong in the kitchen!"

On second thought, he should have known that she wouldn't cave in with the Odd One around. Still, it infuriated him that she would care what the Odd One (or anyone) thought when it came to her spotty allegiance to him. He hissed to make her understand that her tone was simply unacceptable, holding his head high as he exited the kitchen. Sometimes, he wondered why he even bothered with these humans.

There was only one place to go, when he was feeling considerably ruffled and deprived of attention: he would pay a visit upstairs to the Warm One. This would prove to be easy, since the Tall One was currently distracted with his Cub. The Shrimp leapt gracefully up the stairs, and turned the corner into the room where the Warm One was predictably sitting at the desk, scribbling something on a piece of paper, as humans would.

He positioned himself at the base of her chair, flexed his mighty hindquarters and jumped, landing squarely in her lap. Goodness, was that a twinge in his knees? _I must be getting up there in years_ , he reflected with some chagrin. _I really ought to stretch more._

"Come for some cuddles, have you?" asked the Warm One after being only minorly startled, running the back of her slender hand from his head to the middle of his back, just as he liked it. "Just let me finish this paragraph, and then I'll be at your service."

The Shrimp knew better than to fall for an empty promise: 'just one paragraph' would turn into several pages, and he would be the fool, forgotten, stranded on her lap. Shutting his eyes resolutely, he drew in a breath, and hummed the loudest purr his sainted mother had taught him.

"Oh, very well, then," chuckled the Warm One, putting her free hand to good use. The Shrimp's groan of contentment turned genuine as he let himself sink into her legs, which he found to be still too thin. Exactly what she'd been thinking, risking having another Cub when there'd been such fear for her life after having the Odd One, he would never know: yet, she was here, and healthy, and remained the only human he might save in a disaster (the Clever One might make it as well, if he played his cards right). For now, the Shrimp would merely keep his eyes closed and enjoy the moment, for all was right in his house.

 ***The End***

* * *

 _ **And there we have it, folks! Curtain down on the Doctor's Wife series. Due to popular demand, there will be at least two encores (one of which is a scene some ten or so years in the future; another puts the spotlight on Puppydog Barney and Call-Me-Kenneth). I could be talked into doing more, and definitely plan on continuing the M-rated story!**_

 _ **In the meanwhile, thank you all for reading, reviewing, and all of your support during these years (yes, years!) of writing. Special shoutouts to PelirrojaBiu, who's been a great supporter from the start, to elizasky and MrsVonTrapp who've offered help, encouragement, praise, and the occasional, much needed boot to the rear. Lastly, cheers to all my fanfic pals - couldn't get to this point without you all! x  
**_


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